>vfc- 


THE     3  S.  3  T  2C  2E  £. 


R  E  A  I)  T  w  rT 


Jbr  tl]e  Use  cf  ?. 


BY   RUFUS  W 


'k: 
M  €.  R: 

1843. 


c 


READINGS 


IN 


AMERICAN  POETRY 


Jbr  ti)t  Ife  of  SdpoU. 


BY   RUFUS   W.   GRISWOLD 


This  be  the  Poet's  praise, 
That  he  hath  ever  been  of  Liberty 
The  steadiest  friend  ;  of  Justice  and  of  Truth 
Firmest  of  all  supporters  ;  of  high  thoughts, 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  inner  world, 
Creator.  American  Prospects — 1763. 


JOHN  C.  RIKER,  ANN  STREET. 
1843. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843,  by 
JOHN    C.    RIKER, 

in  the  clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


STEREOTYPED   BY  E.   B.   MEAR9, 
21  SOUTH  THIRD   STREET,    PHILADELPHIA. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  collection  of  specimens  of  American  Poetry 
is  designed  principally  for  the  use  of  schools.  The 
books  hitherto  published  for  this  purpose  have  been 
mainly  or  entirely  compiled  from  the  writings  of 
foreigners.  It  is  believed  that  even  in  a  literary  point 
of  view  this  is  inferior  to  none  now  before  the  public, 
and  that  in  some  respects  it  is  superior  to  all  others. 
The  poems  which  it  contains  are  essentially  Ameri 
can,  in  spirit  as  well  as  by  origin.  The  themes  of 
many  of  them  are  from  our  own  history ;  they  relate 
to  the  grand  and  beautiful  in  our  scenery ;  or  assert 
the  dignity  and  rights  of  man,  as  recognized  in  our 
theory  of  government. 

Happily,  in  making  a  compilation  of  this  descrip 
tion,  little  care  was  necessary  to  exclude  from  it  every 
thing  of  a  depraving  tendency.  A  distinguishing  char 
acteristic  of  our  poetry  is  its  freedom  from  all  licen 
tiousness.  Although  the  specimens  from  some  authors 
afford  but  an  imperfect  idea  of  their  genius,  they  are 
such  as  suited  best  the  plan  of  the  editor.  Some  of  the 
most  admirable  productions  of  DANA,  DRAKE,  SANDS, 

(3) 

893563 


PREFACE. 


and  HILLHQUSE,  are  omitted  on  account  of  their  length  ; 
and  the  festive  songs  and  amatory  poems  of  others 
are  for  obvious  reasons  excluded  from  a  volume  de 
signed  to  be  read  by  very  young  persons  in  schools 
and  families.  While  the  collection  embraces  nothing 
from  some  poets  of  good  reputation,  and  from  others, 
poems  not  artistically  the  best  they  have  written,  the 
editor  believes  it  will  leave  on  the  mind  of  the  reader 
a  true  and  gratifying  impression  of  the  general  char 
acter  of  our  poetical  literature. 

A  book  of  this  kind  has  long  been  wanted  in  our 
schools,  in  which  our  own  authors  have  been  unknown, 
while  others,  frequently  inferior  in  merit,  have  been 
familiar.  However  imperfectly  the  editor  may  have 
performed  his  task,  he  anticipates  for  the  volume  a 
favourable  reception,  not  more  confidently  for  this 
reason,  than  because  of  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  its 
contents,  and  the  generally  deepening  interest  in  Ame 
rican  letters. 

PHILADELPHIA,  January  15,  1843. 


CONTENTS. 


Thanatopsis BRYANT Page  13 

The  Dying  Indian FRENEAU 16 

The  Ocean    DANA 18 

A  Psalm  of  Life LONGFELLOW 19 

Spring  in  New  England WILCOX 21 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers PIERPONT 25 

To  Seneca  Lake PERCIVAL 26 

Red  Jacket HALLECK 27 

The  Western  Emigrant SIGOURNEY 31 

Art SPRAGUE 33 

To  the  Ursa  .Major WARE 35 

America  to  Great  Britain ALLSTON 40 

The  Edge  of  the  Swamp SIMMS 41 

Spring WILLIS 43 

The  Past BRYANT 44 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty DA  WES * ....  46 

To  a  Flying  Swan NOBLE 47 

The  Little  Beach-Bird DANA 50 

The  Family  Meeting SPRAGUE 51 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom BRYANT 53 

The  Steamboat HOLMES 55 

Passing  Away PIERPONT 57 

Indian  Names SIGOURNEY 59 

April  WILLIS 60 

Footsteps  of  Angels LONGFELLOW 62 

August GALLAGHER 63 

To  the  Painted  Columbine VERY 66 

The  Early  Dead CLARK 67 

The  Prairies BRYANT 68 

The  Coral  Grove PERCIVAL 72 

The  Lost  Hunter STREET 73 

Marco  Bozzaris HALLECK 78 

1*  (5) 


VI  CONTEXTS. 

The  Village  Blacksmith LONGFELLOW   ...       81 

Sunset  in  September WILCOX 83 

The  Bob-O'Linkum HOFFMAN 85 

Rosalie ALLSTON 87 

The  Pebble  and  the  Acorn GOULD 88 

To  Spring PIKE 90 

Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower NORTON 92 

The  Indian  Summer BRAINARD 93 

New  England WHITTIER 94 

The  Return  of  Youth BRYANT 96 

The  Labourer GALLAGHER 97 

The  Deserted  Wife PERCIVAL 99 

The  Burial-place  at  Laurel  Hill CLARK 100 

The  Winged  Worshippers SPRAGUE 101 

The  American  Flag DRAKE 103 

The  Battle-Field .BRYANT 105 

The  Departed BENJAMIN 106 

The  Last  Days  of  Autumn PERCIVAL 108 

Incomprehensibility  of  God TOWNSEND 109 

"  Go  Forth  into  the  Fields" PABODIE Ill 

"  The  Dead  Leaves  strew  the  Forest  Walk" .  ,  BRAINARD 113 

The  Gray  Forest-Eagle STREET 114 

Good-Night SANDS 119 

Last  Setting  of  the  Sun HILLHOUSE  . . 120 

The  Traveler's  Fate SPRAGUE 122 

To  the  Whip-poor-will ELLET 124 

To  the  Mocking  Bird PIKE 125 

My  Child PIERPONT 127 

Lake  Superior GOODRICH 129 

The  Notes  of  the  Birds M'LELLAN 131 

To  a  City  Pigeon WILLIS 133 

Hymn  of  Nature PEABODY 135 

The  Winds BRYANT 137 

Excelsior LONGFELLOW   ....   139 

The  Exile  at  Rest PIERPONT 141 

The  Dying  Raven DANA  142 

The  Death  of  the  Flowers BRYANT 146 

"  Pass  on,  Relentless  World" LUNT 148 

Old  Ironsides <  •  HOLMES 150 


CONTENTS.  Vil 

/he  Pleasure  Boat DANA  151 

Pentucket WHITTIER 153 

Ode  to  the  Moon BIRD 156 

Morning  Hymn HOFFMAN 158 

Death  and  Life HOOPER 159 

To  a  Waterfowl BRYANT    161 

The  Brothers SPRAGUE 162 

The  Father's  Death JACKSON 163 

"  Are  we  not  Exiles  here  ?" TUCKERMAN 164 

The  Merrimack WHITTIER 166 

A  Winter  Morning NORTON 169 

The  Bugle MELLEN 171 

Seasons  of  Prayer WARE 172 

Winter SIGOURNEY 174 

«  Good  bye,  Proud  World" EMERSON 176 

Look  Aloft LAWRENCE 177 

Weehawken ' SANDS 178 

The  Goblet  of  Life LONGFELLOW 180 

Lines  on  Leaving  Europe WILLIS 182 

To  an  Infant  in  Heaven WARD 185 

Marius  amid  the  Ruins  of  Carthage , .  .CHILD 187 

Endymion LONGFELLOW  ....   188 

The  Sum  of  Life  . . ROCKWELL 189 

The  Presence  of  God WELBY 191 

Twilight HALLECK 194 

To  the  River  Charles LONGFELLOW  ....    195 

<*  Let  there  be  Light"  BURLEIGH 197 

The  Cambridge  Churchyard HOLMES 199 

The  Shaded  Water SIMMS 203 

The  Future  Life BRYANT.  ... ,  205 

The  Old  Man's  Lament EMBURY  ... .   206 

Consumption PERCIVAL 208 

The  Prisoner  for  Debt WHITTIER.  ......   211 

The  Lyre  and  Sword LUNT 214 

The  Falls  of  Niagara .BRAINARD 215 

The  Backwoodsman PEABODY 216 

June BUULKIGII 218 

Mysterious  Music  of  Ocean. MORRIS 220 

To  the  Eagle PKRCIVAI 222 

A  Name  in  the  Sand .............    .........  <  GOULD 225 


X  LISTOFAUTHORS. 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W.    A  Psalm  of  Life,  19;  Footsteps  of  Angels,  62; 

The  Village  Blacksmith,  81 ;  Excelsior,  139;  The  Goblet  of  Life,  180; 

Endymion,  188;   To  the  River  Charles,  195;   The  Reaper  and  the 

Flowers,  233 ;  Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year,  262. 
LUNT,  GEO.    "  Pass  on,  Relentless  World,"  148 ;  The  Lyre  and  Sword,  214. 
McLELLAN,  I.    The  Notes  of  the  Birds,  131. 
MELLEN,  GRENVILLE.    The  Bugle,  171. 
MORRIS,  CARTER.     Mysterious  Music  of  Ocean,  220. 
NOBLE,  LEWIS  L.     To  a  Flying  Swan  in  the  Vale  of  the  Huron,  47. 
NORTON,  ANDREWS.    Scene  after  a  Summer  Shower,  92 ;  A  Winter  Morn 
ing,  169. 

PABODIE,  WILLIAM  J.     "  Go  forth  into  the  Fields,"  111. 
PEABODY,  EPHRAIM.    The  Backwoodsman,  216. 
PEABODY,  WILLIAM  B.  O.     Hymn  of  Nature,  135. 
PERCIVAL,  JAMES  G.    To  Seneca  Lake,  26 ;  The  Coral  Grove,  72 ;  The 

Deserted  Wife,  99;  The  Last  days  of  Autumn,  108;   Consumption, 

208;  To  the  Eagle.  222. 
PIERPONT,  JOHN.    The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  25;  "Passing  Away,"  57;  My 

Child,  127;  The  Exile  at  Rest,  141. 

PIKE,  ALBERT.    To  Spring,  90 ;  To  the  Mocking  Bird,  125. 
PINKNEY,  EDWARD  C.    Italy,  248. 
ROCKWELL,  J.  O.    The  Sum  of  Life,  189. 
SANDS*  ROBERT  C;    Good-Night,  119;  Weehawken*  178. 
SARGENT,  EPES.     The  Days  that  are  Past,  226. 
SIGOURNEY,  LYDIA  H.     The  Western  Emigrant,  31 ;  Indian  Names,  59 ; 

Winter,  174 ;  Death  of  an  Infant,  232. 

SIMMS,  W.  G.    The  Edge  of  the  Swamp,  41 ;  The  Shaded  Water,  203. 
SMITH,  SEBA  Mrs.     The  Drowned  Mariner,  245. 
SPRAGUE,  CHARLES.     Art,  33;    The  Family  Meeting,  51;   The  Winged 

Worshippers,  101;  The  Traveler's  Fate,  122;  The  Brothers,  162. 
STREET,  ALFRED  B.    The  Lost  Hunter,  73;  The  Gray  Forest  Eagle,  1J4. 
TOWNSEND,  ELIZABETH.     Incomprehensibility  of  God,  109. 
TUCKERMAN,  HENRY  T.    "  Are  we  not  Exiles  here  ?"  164 ;  To  an  Elm,  260. 
VERY.  JONES.     To  a  Painted  Columbine,  66. 

WARE,  HENRY,  JR.    To  the  Ursa  Major,  35;  Seasons  of  Prayer,  172. 
WARD,  THOMAS.     To  an  Infant  in  Heaven,  185. 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B.    The  Presence  of  God,  191 ;  To  a  Sea-Shell,  243. 
WHITTIER,  JOHN  G.     New  England,  94;   Pentucket,  153;   The  Merri- 

mack,  166;  The  Prisoner  for  Debt,  211 ;  Democracy,  234. 
WILCOX,  CARLOS.    Spring  in  New  England,  21 ;  Sunset  in  September,  83. 
WILLIS,  N.  P.     Spring,  43;  April,  60;  To  a  City  Pigeon,  133;  Lines  on 

Leaving  Europe,  182;  The  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of  Jairus,  256. 
WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL.    The  Bucket,  240. 


READINGS 


IN 


AMERICAN    POETRY. 


READINGS 


IN 


AMERICAN  POETRY, 


THANATOPSIS. 

BY    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty ;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 
Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 
And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 
Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 
Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
2  (13) 


14 


Where  thy  pale  form  is  laid  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourish'd  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements, — 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers,  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills 
Rock-ribb'd,  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and,  pour'd  round  all 
Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 
The  globe,  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 


THANATOPSIS.  15 

Save  his  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  there  reign  alone. 

So  shalt  thou  rest, — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living — and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?    All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favourite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  rnaid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gather'd  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that,  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustain'd  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  that  draws  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE    DYING   INDIAN. 

BY  PHILIP  FRENEAU. 

ON  yonder  lake  I  spread  the  sail  no  more ! 
Vigour,  and  youth,  and  active  days  are  past ; 
Relentless  demons  urge  me  to  that  shore 
On  whose  black  forests  all  the  dead  are  cast : 
Ye  solemn  train,  prepare  the  funeral  song, 
For  I  must  go  to  shades  below, 
Where  all  is  strange  and  all  is  new ; 
Companion  to  the  airy  throng ! 
What  solitary  streams, 
In  dull  and  dreary  dreams, 
All  melancholy,  must  I  rove  along ! 

To  what  strange  lands  must  CHEQUI  take  his  way ! 
Groves  of  the  dead  departed  mortals  trace ; 
No  deer  along  those  gloomy  forests  stray, 
No  huntsmen  there  take  pleasure  in  the  chase, 
But  all  are  empty,  unsubstantial  shades, 
That  ramble  through  those  visionary  glades ; 
No  spongy  fruits  from  verdant  trees  depend, 

But  sickly  orchards  there 

Do  fruits  as  sickly  bear, 
And  apples  a  consumptive  visage  show, 
And  wither'd  hangs  the  hurtleberry  blue. 

Ah  me !  what  mischiefs  on  the  dead  attend  ! 
Wandering  a  stranger  to  the  shores  below, 
Where  shall  I  brook  or  real  fountain  find? 
Lazy  and  sad  deluding  waters  flow : 
Such  is  the  picture  in  my  boding  mind ! 

(10 


THE    DYING    INDIAN.  17 

Fine  tales,  indeed,  they  tell 

Of  shades  and  purling  rills, 

Where  our  dead  fathers  dwell 

Beyond  the  western  hills; 
But  when  did  ghost  return  his  state  to  show, 
Or  who  can  promise  half  the  tale  is  true  ? 

I  too  must  be  a  fleeting  ghost !  no  more  ; 
None,  none  but  shadows  to  those  mansions  go ; 
I  leave  my  woods,  I  leave  the  Huron  shore, 

For  emptier  groves  below  ! 

Ye  charming  solitudes, 

Ye  tall  ascending  woods, 
Ye  glassy  lakes  and  prattling  streams, 

Whose  aspect  still  was  sweet, 

Whether  the  sun  did  greet, 
Or  the  pale  moon  embraced  you  with  her  beams — 

Adieu  to  all ! 

To  all  that  charm'd  me  where  I  stray'd, 
The  winding  stream,  the  dark  sequester'd  shade ; 

Adieu  all  triumphs  here ! 
Adieu  the  mountain's  lofty  swell, 
Adieu,  thou  little  verdant  hill, 
And  seas,  and  stars,  and  skies — farewell, 

For  some  remoter  sphere ! 
Perplex'd  with  doubts,  and  tortured  with  despair, 
Why  so  dejected  at  this  hopeless  sleep  ? 
Nature  at  last  these  ruins  may  repair, 
When  fate's  long  dream  is  o'er,  and  she  forgets  to  weep ; 
Some  real  world  once  more  may  be  assigned, 
Some  new-born  mansion  for  the  immortal  mind ! 
Farewell,  sweet  lake ;  farewell,  surrounding  woods, 
To  other  groves,  through  midnight  glooms,  I  stray, 

2* 


18  THE      OCEAN. 

Beyond  the  mountains,  and  beyond  the  floods, 

Beyond  the  Huron  Bay ! 
Prepare  the  hollow  tomb,  and  place  me  low, 
My  trusty  bow  and  arrows  by  my  side, 
The  cheerful  bottle  and  the  venison  store ; 
For  long  the  journey  is  that  I  must  go, 
Without  a  partner  and  without  a  guide. 


THE  OCEAN. 

BY    RICHARD    H.    DANA. 

Now  stretch  your  eye  off  shore,  o'er  waters  made 
To  cleanse  the  air  and  bear  the  world's  great  trade, 
To  rise,  and  wet  the  mountains  near  the  sun, 
Then  back  into  themselves  in  rivers  run, 
Fulfilling  mighty  uses  far  and  wide, 
Through  earth,  in  air,  or  here,  as  ocean-tide. 

Ho !  how  the  giant  heaves  himself,  and  strains 
And  flings  to  break  his  strong  and  viewless  chains ; 
Foams  in  his  wrath ;  and  at  his  prison  doors, 
Hark  !  hear  him  !  how  he  beats  and  tugs  and  roars, 
As  if  he  would  break  forth  again  and  sweep 
Each  living  thing  within  his  lowest  deep. 

Type  of  the  Infinite !  I  look  away 
Over  thy  billows,  and  I  cannot  stay 
My  thought  upon  a  resting-place,  or  make 
A  shore  beyond  my  vision,  where  they  break ; 
But  on  my  spirit  stretches,  till  it's  pain 
To  think ;  then  rests,  and  then  puts  forth  again. 
Thou  hold'st  me  by  a  spell ;  and  on  thy  beach 
I  feel  all  soul ;  and  thoughts  unmeasured  reach 


A     PSALM     OF    LIFE.  19 

Far  back  beyond  all  date.     And,  O  !  how  old 
Thou  art  to  me !     For  countless  years  thou  hast  roll'd. 
Before  an  ear  did  hear  thee,  thou  didst  mourn, 
Prophet  of  sorrows,  o'er  a  race  unborn ; 
Waiting,  thou  mighty  minister  of  death, 
Lonely  thy  work,  ere  man  had  drawn  his  breath. 
At  last  thou  didst  it  well !    The  dread  command 
Came,  and  thou  swept'st  to  death  the  breathing  land ,< 
And  then  once  more,  unto  the  silent  heaven 
Thy  lone  and  melancholy  voice  was  given. 

And  though  the  land  is  throng'd  again,  O  Sea ! 
Strange  sadness  touches  all  that  goes  with  thee. 
The  small  bird's  plaining  note,  the  wild,  sharp  call, 
Share  thy  own  spirit :  it  is  sadness  all ! 
How  dark  and  stern  upon  thy  waves  looks  down 
Yonder  tall  cliff — he  with  the  iron  crown. 
And  see !  those  sable  pines  along  the  steep, 
Are  come  to  join  thy  requiem,  gloomy  deep  ! 
Like  stoled  monks  they  stand  and  chant  the  dirge 
Over  the  dead,  with  thy  low  beating  surge. 


A   PSALM    OF   LIFE. 

WHAT    THE   HEART   OF    THE    YOUNG    MAN    SAID   TO    THE    PSALMIST. 
BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !     Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou^art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 


20  A     PSALM     OF     LIFE. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  GOD  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another,  , 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwreck'd  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labour  and  to  wait. 


SPRING   IN   NEW  ENGLAND. 

BY    CARLOS    WILCOX. 

LONG  swoln  in  drenching  rain,  seeds,  germs,  and  buds 
Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams. 
Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 
Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 
A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed,  in  one  short  week, 
Is  naked  Nature  in  her  full  attire. 
On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 
Is  all  the  woodland,  fill'd  with  sunbeams,  pour'd 
Through  the  bare  tops,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 
With  strong  reflection  :  on  the  last,  'tis  dark 
With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 
In  one  short  week  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms ; 
And  now,  when  steep'd  in  dew  or  gentle  showers 
It  yields  the  purest  sweetness  to  the  breeze, 
Or  all  the  tranquil  atmosphere  perfumes. 
E'en  from  the  juicy  leaves  of  sudden  growth, 
And  the  rank  grass  of  steaming  ground,  the  air, 
Filled  with  a  watery  glimmering,  receives 
A  grateful  smell,  exhaled  by  warming  rays. 
Each  day  are  heard,  and  almost  every  hour, 
New  notes  to  swell  the  music  of  the  groves. 
And  soon  the  latest  of  the  feather'd  train 
At  evening  twilight  come ;  the  lonely  snipe, 
O'er  marshy  fields,  high  in  the  dusky  air, 
Invisible,  but  with  faint,  tremulous  tones, 
Hovering  or  playing  o'er  the  listener's  head ; 
And,  in  mid-air,  the  sportive  night-hawk,  seen 
Flying  awhile  at  random,  uttering  oft 
A  cheerful  cry,  attended  with  a  shake 

(21) 


22  SPRING    IN    NEW    ENGLAND. 

Of  level  pinions,  dark,  but  when  upturn'd 
Against  the  brightness  of  the  western  sky, 
One  white  plume  showing  in  the  midst  of  each, 
Then  far  down  diving  with  loud  hollow  sound ; 
And,  deep  at  first  within  the  distant  wood, 
The  whip-poor-will,  her  name  her  only  song. 
She,  soon  as  children  from  the  noisy  sport 
Of  hooping,  laughing,  talking  with  all  tones, 
To  hear  the  echoes  of  the  empty  barn, 
Are  by  her  voice  diverted  and  held  mute, 
Comes  to  the  margin  of  the  nearest  grove ; 
And  when  the  twilight,  deepen'd  into  night, 
Calls  them  within,  close  to  the  house  she  comes, 
And  on  its  dark  side,  haply  on  the  step 
Of  unfrequented  door,  lighting  unseen, 
Breaks  into  strains  articulate  and  clear, 
The  closing  sometimes  quicken'd,  as  in  sport. 
Now,  animate  throughout,  from  morn  to  eve 
All  harmony,  activity,  and  joy, 
Is  lovely  Nature,  as  in  her  bless'd  prime. 
The  robin  to  the  garden  or  green  yard, 
Close  to  the  door,  repairs  to  build  again 
Within  her  wonted  tree ;  and  at  her  work 
Seems  doubly  busy  for  her  past  delay. 
Along  the  surface  of  the  winding  stream, 
Pursuing  every  turn,  gay  swallows  skim, 
Or  round  the  borders  of  the  spacious  lawn 
Fly  in  repeated  circles,  rising  o'er 
Hillock  and  fence  with  motion  serpentine, 
Easy  and  light.     One  snatches  from  the  ground 
A  downy  feather,  and  then  upward  springs, 
Follow'd  by  others,  but  oft  drops  it  soon, 
In  playful  mood,  or  from  too  slight  a  hold, 
When  all  at  once  dart  at  the  falling  prize. 


SPRING    IN    NEW    ENGLAND.  23 

The  flippant  blackbird,  with  light  yellow  crown, 
Hangs  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  chatters  thick 
Till  her  breath  fail,  when,  breaking  off,  she  drops 
On  the  next  tree,  and  on  its  highest  limb 
Or  some  tall  flag,  and  gently  rocking,  sits, 
Her  strain  repeating.     With  sonorous  notes 
Of  every  tone,  mixed  in  confusion  sweet, 
All  chanted  in  the  fulness  of  delight, 
The  forest  rings  :  where  far  around  enclosed 
With  bushy  sides,  and  cover'd  high  above 
Writh  foliage  thick,  supported  by  bare  trunks, 
Like  pillars  rising  to  support  a  roof, 
It  seems  a  temple  vast,  the  space  within 
Rings  loud  and  clear  with  thrilling  melody. 
Apart,  but  near  the  choir,  with  voice  distinct, 
The  merry  mocking-bird  together  links 
In  one  continued  song  their  different  notes, 
Adding  new  life  and  sweetness  to  them  all. 
Hid  under  shrubs,  the  squirrel  that  in  fields 
Frequents  the  stony  wall  and  briery  fence, 
Here  chirps  so  shrill  that  human  feet  approach 
Unheard  till  just  upon  him,  when,  with  cries 
Sudden  and  sharp,  he  darts  to  his  retreat 
Beneath  the  mossy  hillock  or  aged  tree ; 
But  oft  a  moment  after  reappears, 
First  peeping  out,  then  starting  forth  at  once 
With  a  courageous  air,  yet  in  his  pranks 
Keeping  a  watchful  eye,  nor  venturing  far 
Till  left  unheeded.     In  rank  pastures  graze, 
Singly  and  mutely,  the  contented  herd ; 
And  on  the  upland  rough  the  peaceful  sheep ; 
Regardless  of  the  frolic  lambs,  that,  close 
Beside  them,  and  before  their  faces  prone, 
With  many  an  antic  leap  and  butting  feint, 


24  SPRING    IN    NEW    ENGLAND. 

Try  to  provoke  them  to  unite  in  sport, 

Or  grant  a  look,  till  tired  of  vain  attempts ; 

When,  gathering  in  one  company  apart, 

All  vigour  and  delight,  away  they  run, 

Straight  to  the  utmost  corner  of  the  field, 

The  fence  beside ;  then,  wheeling,  disappear 

In  some  small  sandy  pit,  then  rise  to  view ; 

Or  crowd  together  up  the  heap  of  earth 

Around  some  upturn'd  root  of  fallen  tree, 

And  on  its  top  a  trembling  moment  stand, 

Then  to  the  distant  flock  at  once  return. 

Exhilarated  by  the  general  joy, 

And  the  fair  prospect  of  a  fruitful  year, 

The  peasant,  with  light  heart  and  nimble  step, 

His  work  pursues,  as  it  were  pastime  sweet. 

With  many  a  cheering  word,  his  willing  team, 

For  labour  fresh,  he  hastens  to  the  field 

Ere  morning  lose  its  coolness  ;  but  at  eve, 

WThen  loosen'd  from  the  plough  and  homeward  turn'd, 

He  follows  slow  and  silent,  stopping  oft 

To  mark  the  daily  growth  of  tender  grain 

And  meadows  of  deep  verdure,  or  to  view 

His  scatter'd  flock  and  herd,  of  their  own  will 

Assembling  for  the  night  by  various  paths, 

The  old  now  freely  sporting  with  the  young, 

Or  labouring  with  uncouth  attempts  at  sport. 


THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS. 

BY    JOHN    PIERPONT. 

THE  Pilgrim  Fathers, — where  are  they  ?— 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore : 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  roll'd  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moor'd  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapp'd  the  Pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale 

When  the  heavens  look'd  dark,  is  gone ; — 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Pilgrim  exile, — sainted  name  ! 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ; — 

But  the  Pilgrim, — where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest ; 

When  summer's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dress'd ; 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
3  C25) 


26  TO    SENECA    LAKE. 

The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallow'd  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled ; 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  their  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  Mayflower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


TO    SENECA   LAKE. 

BY   JAMES    G.    TERCIVAL. 

ON  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 

And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 


RED    JACKET.  27 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 

Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 
And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

Oh !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


RED   JACKET, 

A   CHIEF   OF   THE   INDIAN   TRIBES,   THE   TUSCARORAS. 
BY    FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

COOPER,  whose  name  is  with  his  country's  woven, 
First  in  her  files,  her  PIONEER  of  mind, 

A  wanderer  now  in  other  climes,  has  proven 
His  love  for  the  young  land  he  left  behind ; 

And  throned  her  in  the  Senate  Hall  of  Nations, 
Robed  like  the  deluge-rainbow,  heaven-wrought, 

Magnificent  as  his  own  mind's  creations, 
And  beautiful  as  its  green  world  of  thought. 

And  faithful  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  quoted 
As  law-authority — it  passed  nem.  con. — 

He  writes  that  we  are,  as  ourselves  have  voted, 
The  most  enlighten'd  people  ever  known. 


28  RED    JACKET. 

That  all  our  week  is  happy  as  a  Sunday 

In  Paris,  full  of  song,  and  dance,  and  laugh : 

And  that,  from  Orleans  to  the  Bay  of  Fundy, 
There's  not  a  bailiff  nor  an  epitaph. 

And,  furthermore,  in  fifty  years  or  sooner, 
We  shall  export  our  poetry  and  wine ; 

And  our  brave  fleet,  eight  frigates  and  a  schooner, 
Will  sweep  the  seas  from  Zembla  to  the  Line. 

If  he  were  with  me,  King  of  Tuscarora, 

Gazing  as  I,  upon  thy  portrait  now, 
In  all  its  medall'd,  fringed,  and  beaded  glory, 

Its  eyes'  dark  beauty,  and  its  thoughtful  brow — 

Its  brow,  half  martial  and  half  diplomatic, 
Its  eye,  upsoaring  like  an  eagle's  wings ; 

Well  might  he  boast  that  we,  the  Democratic, 
Outrival  Europe — even  in  our  kings. 

For  thou  wert  monarch  born.     Tradition's  pages 
Tell  not  the  planting  of  thy  parent  tree,       ;sr 

But  that  the  forest  tribes  have  bent  for  ages, 
To  thee,  and  to  thy  sires,  the  subject  knee. 

Thy  name  is  princely,  though  no  poet's  magic 

Could  make  RED  JACKET  grace  an  English  rhyme, 

Unless  he  had  a  genius  for  the  tragic, 
And  introduced  it  in  a  pantomime ; 

Yet  it  is  music  in  the  language  spoken 

Of  thine  own  land  ;  and  on  her  herald-roll, 

As  nobly  fought  for,  and  as  proud  a  token 
As  C(EUR  DE  LION'S,  of  a  warrior's  soul. 


RED     JACKET.  29 

Thy  garb — though  Austria's  bosom-star  would  frighten 
That  metal  pale,  as  diamonds  the  dark  mine, 

And  George  the  Fourth  wore  in  the  dance  at  Brighton 
A  more  becoming  evening  dress  than  thine ; 

Yet  'tis  a  brave  one,  scorning  wind  and  weather, 
And  fitted  for  thy  couch  on  field  and  flood, 

As  Rob  Roy's  tartans  for  the  Highland  heather, 
Or  forest  green  for  England's  Robin  Hood. 

Is  strength  a  monarch's  merit  ?  (like  a  whaler's) 
Thou  art  as  tall,  as  sinewy,  and  as  strong 

As  earth's  first  kings — the  Argo's  gallant  sailors, 
Heroes  in  history,  and  gods  in  song. 

Is  eloquence  ?     Her  spell  is  thine,  that  reaches 
The  heart,  and  makes  the  wisest  head  its  sport ; 

And  there's  one  rare,  strange  virtue  in  thy  speeches — 
The  secret  of  their  mastery — they  are  short. 

Is  beauty  ?  Thine  has  with  thy  youth  departed, 
But  the  love-legends  of  thy  manhood's  years, 

And  she  who  perish'd,  young  and  broken-hearted, 
Are — but  I  rhyme  for  smiles,  and  not  for  tears. 

The  monarch  mind — the  mystery  of  commanding, 

The  godlike  power,  the  art  Napoleon, 
Of  winning,  fettering,  moulding,  wielding,  bending, 

The  hearts  of  millions  till  they  move  as  one ; 

Thou  hast  it.     At  thy  bidding  men  have  crowded 

The  road  to  death  as  to  a  festival ; 
And  minstrel  minds,  without  a  blush,  have  shrouded 

With  banner-folds  of  glory  their  dark  pall. 
3* 


30  RED    JACKET. 

Who  will  believe — not  I — for  in  deceiving 
Lies  the  dear  charm  of  life's  delightful  dream ; 

I  cannot  spare  the  luxury  of  believing 

That  all  things  beautiful  are  what  they  seem. 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would  like  the  patriarch's  soothe  a  dying  hour; 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlight  bower ; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air ; 
Thou  art  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clinch'd  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair  ? 

That  in  thy  veins  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  which  bathes  the  Upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath,  a  nursing  Cat  o'  Mountain 
Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee? 

And  underneath  that  face  like  summer's  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions, 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow — all, save  fear. 

Love — for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipes  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred — of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 
Pride — in  thy  rifle-trophies  and   thy  scars ; 

Hope — that  thy  wrongs  will  be  by  the  Great  Spirit 
Remember'd  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone; 

Sorrow — that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne. 


THE   WESTERN    EMIGRANT. 

BY    LYDIA    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

AN  axe  rang  sharply  mid  those  forest  shades 
Which  from  creation  towards  the  skies  had  tower'd 
In  unshorn  beauty.     There,  with  vigorous  arm, 
Wrought  a  bold  emigrant,  and  by  his  side 
His  little  son,  with  question  and  response, 
Beguiled  the  toil.     "  Boy,  thou  hast  never  seen 
Such  glorious  trees.     Hark,  when  their  giant  trunks 
Fall,  how  the  firm  earth  groans  !     Rememberest  thou 
The  mighty  river,  on  whose  breast  we  sail'd, 
So  many  days  on  towards  the  setting  sun  ? 
Our  own  Connecticut,  compared  to  that, 
Was  but  a  creeping  stream."     "  Father,  the  brook 
That  by  our  door  went  singing,  where  I  launch'd 
My  tiny  boat,  with  my  young  playmates  round 
When  school  was  o'er,  is  dearer  far  to  me 
Than  all  these  bold,  broad  waters.     To  my  eye 
They  are  as  strangers.     And  those  little  trees 
My  mother  nurtured  in  the  garden  bound 
Of  our  first  home,  from  whence  the  fragrant  peach 
Hung  in  its  ripening  gold,  were  fairer,  sure, 
Than  this  dark  forest,  shutting  out  the  day." 
"  What,  ho  !  my  little  girl,"  and  with  light  step 
A  fairy  creature  hasted  towards  her  sire, 
And,  setting  down  the  basket  that  contain'd 
His  noon  repast,  look'd  upward  to  his  face 
With  sweet  confiding  smile.     "  See,  dearest,  see, 
That  bright-wing'd  paroquet,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  yon  gay  redbird,  echoing  through  the  trees, 

(31) 


32  THE    WESTERN    EMIGRANT. 

Making  rich  music.     Didst  thou  ever  hear, 

In  far  New  England,  such  a  mellow  tone  ?" 

"  I  had  a  robin  that  did  take  the  crumbs 

Each  night  and  morning,  and  his  chirping  voice 

Did  make  me  joyful  as  I  went  to  tend 

My  snowdrops.     I  was  always  laughing  then 

In  that  first  home.     I  should  be  happier  now, 

Methinks,  if  I  could  find  among  these  dells 

The  same  fresh  violets."     Slow  night  drew  on, 

And  round  the  rude  hut  of  the  emigrant 

The  wrathful  spirit  of  the  rising  storm 

Spake  bitter  things.     His  weary  children  slept, 

And  he,  with  head  declined,  sat  listening  long 

To  the  swoln  waters  of  the  Illinois, 

Dashing  against  their  shores.     Starting,  he  spake : 

"  Wife !  did  I  see  thee  brush  away  a  tear  ? 

'Twas  even  so.     Thy  heart  was  with  the  halls 

Of  thy  nativity.     Their  sparkling  lights, 

Carpets,  and  sofas,  and  admiring  guests, 

Befit  thee  better  than  these  rugged  walls 

Of  shapeless  logs,  and  this  lone  hermit  home." 

"  No,  no.     All  was  so  still  around,  methought 

Upon  mine  ear  that  echoed  hymn  did  steal, 

Which  mid  the  church  where  erst  we  paid  our  vows, 

So  tuneful  peal'd.     But  tenderly  thy  voice 

Dissolved  the  illusion."     And  the  gentle  smile 

Lighting  her  brow,  the  fond  caress  that  soothed 

Her  waking  infant,  reassured  his  soul 

That,  wheresoe'er  our  best  affections  dwell, 

And  strike  a  healthful  root,  is  happiness. 

Content  and  placid  to  his  rest  he  sank : 

But  dreams,  those  wild  magicians,  that  do  play 

Such  pranks  when  reason  slumbers,  tireless  wrought 

Their  will  with  him.     Up  rose  the  thronging  mart 


ART,  33 

Of  his  own  native  city ;  roof  and  spire, 
All  glittering  bright,  in  fancy's  frost-work  ray. 
The  steed  his  boyhood  nurtured  proudly  neigh'd ; 
The  favourite  dog  came  frisking  round  his  feet, 
With  shrill  and  joyous  bark ;  familiar  doors 
Flew  open ;  greeting  hands  with  his  were  link'd 
In  friendship's  grasp ;  he  heard  the  keen  debate 
From  congregated  haunts,  where  mind  with  mind 
Doth  blend  and  brighten ;  and,  till  morning,  roved 
Mid  the  loved  scenery  of  his  native  land. 


ART. 

BY    CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

WHEN,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 

Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  cross'd  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'Twas  Art !  sweet  Art !  new  radiance  broke 

Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground, 
And  thus  with  seraph  voice  she  spoke : 

"  The  curse  a  blessing  shall  be  found." 

She  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeam  never  blazed ; 
The  thistle  shrunk,  the  harvest  smiled, 

And  Nature  gladden'd  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 

At  Art's  command  to  him  are  given ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 


34  ART. 

He  rends  the  oak — and  bids  it  ride, 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced ; 
He  smites  the  rock — upheaved  in  pride, 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste. 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal, 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  beauty's  lap  to  fill  ; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
With  thoughts  that  fill  his  glowing  soul, 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page, 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  control, 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name, 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky, 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  throne  on  high. 
In  war  renown'd,  in  peace  sublime, 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace ; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race. 


TO   THE   URSA   MAJOR. 

BY    HENRY    WARE,    JR. 

WITH  what  a  stately  and  majestic  step 
That  glorious  constellation  of  the  north 
Treads  its  eternal  circle  !  going  forth 
Its  princely  way  among  the  stars  in  slow 
And  silent  brightness.     Mighty  one,  all  hail ! 
I  joy  to  see  thee  on  thy  glowing  path 
Walk,  like  some  stout  and  girded  giant :  stern, 
Unwearied,  resolute,  whose  toiling  foot 
Disdains  to  loiter  on  its  destined  way. 
The  other  tribes  forsake  their  midnight  track, 
And  rest  their  weary  orbs  beneath  the  wave ; 
But  thou  dost  never  close  thy  burning  eye, 
Nor  stay  thy  steadfast  step.     But  on,  still  on, 
While  systems  change,  and  suns  retire,  and  worlds 
Slumber  and  wake,  thy  ceaseless  march  proceeds. 
The  near  horizon  tempts  to  rest  in  vain. 
Thou,  faithful  sentinel,  dost  never  q.uit 
Thy  long-appointed  watch  ;  but,  sleepless  still, 
Dost  guard  the  fix'd  light  of  the  universe, 
And  bid  the  north  for  ever  know  its  place. 

Ages  have  witness'd  thy  devoted  trust, 
Unchanged,  unchanging.     When  the  sons  of  God 
Sent  forth  that  shout  of  joy  which  rang  through  heaven, 
And  echoed  from  the  outer  spheres  that  bound 
The  illimitable  tmiverse,  thy  voice 
JoinM  the  high  chorus ;  from  thy  radiant  orbs 
The  glad  cry  sounded,  swelling  to  His  praise, 
Who  thus  had  cast  another  sparkling  gem, 

(35) 


36  TO     THE     URSA     MAJOR. 

Little,  but  beautiful,  amid  the  crowd 

Of  splendours  that  enrich  his  firmament. 

As  thou  art  now,  so  wast  thou  then  the  same. 

Ages  have  roli'd  their  course,  and  time  grown  gray ; 

The  earth  has  gathered  to  her  womb  again, 

And   yet  again,  the  myriads  that  were  born 

Of  her  uncounted,  unremember'd  tribes. 

The  seas  have  changed  their  beds ;  the  eternal  hills 

Have  stoop'd  with  age  ;  the  solid  continents 

Have  left  their  banks ;  and  man's  imperial  works — 

The  toil,  pride,  strength  of  kingdoms,  which  had  flung 

Their  haughty  honours  in  the  face  of  Heaven,     *» 

As  if  immortal — have  been  swept  away, 

Shatter'd  and  mouldering,  buried  and  forgot. 

But  time  has  shed  no  dimness  on  thy  front, 

Nor  touch'd  the  firmness  of  thy  tread :  youth,  strength, 

And  beauty,  still  are  thine  j  as  clear,  as  bright, 

As  when  the  Almighty  Former  sent  thee  forth, 

Beautiful  offspring  of  his  curious  skill, 

To  watch  earth's  northern  beacon,  and  proclaim 

The  eternal  chorus  of  eternal  Love. 

I  wonder  as  I  gaze.     That  stream  of  light, 
Undimrn'd,  unquench'd — just  as  I  see  it  now — 
Has  issued  from  those  dazzling  points  through  years 
That  go  back  far  into  eternity. 
Exhaustless  flood  !  for  ever  spent,  renew'd 
For  ever !     Yea,  and  those  refulgent  drops, 
Which  now  descend  upon  my  lifted  eye, 
Left  their  far  fountain  twice  three  years  ago. 
While  those  wing'd  particles,  whose  speed  outstrips 
The  flight  of  thought,  were  on  their  way,  the  earth 
Compass'd  its  tedious  circuit  round  and  round, 
And,  in  the  extremes  of  annual  change,  beheld 
Six  autumns  fade,  six  springs  renew  their  bloom. 


TO    THE     URSA    MAJOR.  37 

So  far  from  earth  those  mighty  orbs  revolve ! 

So  vast  the  void  through  which  their  beams  descend ! 

,Yes,  glorious  lamp  of  God !    He  may  have  quench'd 
Your  ancient  flames,  and  bid  eternal  night 
Rest  on  your  spheres  ;  and  yet  no  tidings  reach 
This  distant  planet.     Messengers  still  come 
Laden  with  your  far  fire,  and  we  may  seem 
To  see  your  lights  still  burning ;  while  their  blaze 
But  hides  the  black  wreck  of  extinguish'd  realms, 
Where  anarchy  and  darkness  long  have  reign'd. 

Yet  what  is  this,  which  to  the  astonish'd  mind 
Seems  measureless,  and  which  the  baffled  thought 
Confounds  ?    A  span,  a  point,  in  those  domains 
Which  the  keen  eye  can  traverse.     Seven  stars 
Dwell  in  that  brilliant  cluster,  and  the  sight 
Embraces  all  at  once ;  yet  each  from  each 
Recedes  as  far  as  each  of  them  from  earth. 
And  every  star  from  every  other  burns 
No  less  remote.     From  the  profound  of  heaven, 
UntravelPd  even  in  thought,  keen,  piercing  rays 
Dart  through  the  void,  revealing  to  the  sense 
Systems  and  worlds  unnumber'd.     Take  the  glass 
And  search  the  skies.     The  opening  skies  pour  down 
Upon  your  gaze  thick  showers  of  sparkling  fire ; 
Stars,  crowded,  throng'd,  in  regions  so  remote, 
That  their  swift  beams — the  swiftest  things  that  be— 
Have  travell'd  centuries  on  their  flight  to  earth. 
Earth,  sun,  and  nearer  constellations  !  what 
Are  ye  amid  this  infinite  extent 
And  multitude  of  God's  most  infinite  works  ! 

And  these  are  suns  !  vast,  central,  living  fires, 
Lords  of  dependent  systems,  kings  of  worlds 
That  wait  as  satellites  upon  their  power, 
And  flourish  in  their  smile.     Awake,  my  soul, 
4 


TO    THE     URSA     MAJOR. 

And  meditate  the  wonder !    Countless  suns 

Blaze  round  thee,  leading  forth  their  countless  worlds ! 

Worlds  in  whose  bosoms  living  things  rejoice, 

And  drink  the  bliss  of  being  from  the  fount 

Of  all-pervading  Love.     What  mind  can  know, 

What  tongue  can  utter,  all  their  multitudes ! 

Thus  numberless  in  numberless  abodes  ! 

Known  but  to  thee,  bless'd  Father !    Thine  they  are, 

Thy  children,  and  thy  care ;  and  none  o'erlook'd 

Of  thee !    No,  not  the  humblest  soul  that  dwells 

Upon  the  humblest  globe,  which  wheels  its  course 

Amid  the  giant  glories  of  the  sky, 

Like  the  mean  mote  that  dances  in  the  beam 

Among  the  mirror'd  lamps,  which  fling 

Their  wasteful  splendour  from  the  palace  wall, 

None,  none  escape  the  kindness  of  thy  care : 

All  compass'd  underneath  thy  spacious  wing, 

Each  fed  and  guided  by  thy  powerful  hand. 

Tell  me,  ye  splendid  orbs  !  as  from  your  throne 
Ye  mark  the  rolling  provinces  that  own 
Your  sway,  what  beings  fill  those  bright  abodes  ? 
How  form'd,  how  gifted  ?  what  their  powers,  their  state, 
Their  happiness,  their  wisdom  ?    Do  they  bear 
The  stamp  of  human  nature?     Or  has  God 
Peopled  those  purer  realms  with  lovelier  forms 
And  more  celestial  minds  ?    Does  Innocence 
Still  wear  her  native  and  untainted  bloom  ? 
Or  has  Sin  breathed  his  deadly  blight  abroad, 
And  sow'd  corruption  in  those  fairy  bowers  ? 
Has  War  trod  o'er  them  with  his  foot  of  fire  ? 
And  Slavery  forged  his  chains;  and  Wra'.h,  and  Hate, 
And  sordid  Selfishness,  and  cruel  Lust, 
Leagued  their  base  bands  to  tread  out  light  and  truth, 
And  scatter'd  woe  where  Heaven  had  planted  joy  ? 


TO    THE    URSA    MAJOR.  39 

Or  are  they  yet  all  paradise,  unfallen 

And  uncorrupt ;  existence  one  long  joy, 

Without  disease  upon  the  frame,  or  sin 

Upon  the  heart,  or  weariness  of  life ; 

Hope  never  quench'd,  and  age  unknown, 

And  death  unfear'd :  while  fresh  and  fadeless  youth 

Glows  in  the  light  from  God's  near  throne  of  love, 

Open  your  lips,  ye  wonderful  and  fair ! 
Speak,  speak!  the  mysteries  of  those  living  worlds 
Unfold  !    No  language  ?    Everlasting  light 
And  everlasting  silence  ?     Yet  the  eye 
May  read  and  understand.     The  hand  of  God 
Has  written  legibly  what  man  may  know, 
THE  GLORY  OF  THE  MAKER.     There  it  shines, 
Ineffable,  unchangeable  ;  and  man, 
Bound  to  the  surface  of  this  pigmy  globe, 
May  know  and  ask  no  more.     In  other  days, 
When  death  shall  give  the  encumber'd  spirit  wings, 
Its  range  shall  be  extended  ;  it  shall  roam, 
Perchance  among  those  vast  mysterious  spheres, 
Shall  pass  from  orb  to  orb,  and  dwell  in  each, 
Familiar  with  its  children ;  learn  their  laws, 
And  share  their  state,  and  study  and  adore 
The  infinite  varieties  of  bliss 
And  beauty,  by  the  hand  of  Power  divine 
Lavish'd  on  all  its  works.     Eternity 
Shall  thus  roll  on  with  ever  fresh  delight ; 
No  pause  of  pleasure  or  improvement ;  world 
On  world  still  opening  to  the  instructed  mind 
An  unexhausted  universe,  and  time 
But  adding  to  its  glories.     While  the  soul, 
Advancing  ever  to  the  Source  of  light 
And  all  perfection,  lives,  adores,  and  reigns 
In  cloudless  knowledge,  purity,  and  bliss. 


AMERICA   TO   GREAT   BRITAIN. 

BY    WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 

ALL  hail !  thou  noble  land, 
Our  fathers'  native  soil ! 
Oh,  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 

Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore ! 
For  thou  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phoebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er ! 

The  genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime ; 

While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 

With  their  conches  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line, 
Like  the  milky  way  shall  shine 

Bright  in  fame. 

Though  ages  long  have  pass'd 

Since  our  fathers  left  their  home, 
Their  pilot  in  the  blast, 

O'er  imtravell'd  seas  to  roam, — 
Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame, 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

(40) 


THE    EDGE    OPTHESW  AMP.  41 

While  the  language  free  and  bold 
Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung, 
In  which  our  MILTON  told, 
How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung, 
When  Satan  blasted,  fell  with  his  host; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Round  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 

Between  let  ocean  roll, 

Our  joint  communion  breaking  with  the  sun : 
Yet,  still,  from  either  beach, 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
"  We  are  one  !" 


THE    EDGE    OF    THE    SWAMP. 

BY    WILLIAM    G.    SIMMS. 

'T  is  a  wild  spot  and  hath  a  gloomy  look  ; 
The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 
And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.     A  rank  growth 
Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  power  to  taint, 
With  blistering  dews,  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 
To  penetrate  the  covert.     Cypresses 
Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth  ;  and,  stretch'd  at  length, 
The  cayman — a  fit  dweller  in  such  home — 
Slumbers,  half  buried  in  the  sedgy  grass, 
Beside  the  green  ooze  where  he  shelters  him. 
4* 


42  THE     EDGE     OF     THE     SWAMP. 

A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 

And  shrieks  in  flight.     Two  summer  ducks,  aroused 

To  apprehension  as  they  hear  his  cry, 

Dash  up  from  the  lagoon  with  marvellous  haste, 

Following  his  guidance.     Meetly  taught  by  these, 

And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 

The  steel-jaw'd  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 

Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy  green  abode, 

Which  straight  receives  him.     You  behold  him  now, 

His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds 

In  silence  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 

Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 

That,  travelling  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 

Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  a  while, 

Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.     The  surly  mute 

Straightway  goes  down,  so  suddenly,  that  he, 

The  dandy  of  the  summer  flowers  and  woods, 

Dips  his  light  wings  and  spoils  his  golden  coat 

With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 

Wondering  and  vex'd,  the  plumed  citizen 

Flies,  with  a  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore, 

Seeking  his  kindred  flowers  ;  but  seeks  in  vain  : 

Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 

Nothing  of  beautiful !     Wild  ragged  trees, 

That  look  like  felon  spectres — fetid  shrubs, 

That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere — dusk  shades, 

That  gather,  half  a  cloud  and  half  a  fiend 

In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge — 

Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 

The  general  prospect.     The  sad  butterfly, 

Waving  his  lacker'd  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 

And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed 

For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet 

Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night. 


-     A;  h 

SPRING. 

BY    NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS. 

THE  Spring  is  here,  the  delicate-footed  May, 

With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours : 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods ; 

And  Nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods : 

Yet  even  there  a  restless  thought  will  steal, 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 

The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  June, 
And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet : 

Strange,  that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream ; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream ; 

Bird-like,  the  prison'd  soul  will  lift  its  eye, 

And  pine  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 

(43) 


THE   PAST. 

BY    WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 

THOU  unrelenting  Past ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  that  draws  us  to  the  ground, 

And  last,  man's  life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — the  kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 

My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  one  back :  yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
The  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain  :  thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back,  nor  to  the  broken  heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown :  to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gatherM,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea ; 

(44) 


THE    PAST.  45 

Labours  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublish'd  charity,  unbroken  faith  : 

Love  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  falter'd  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unutter'd,  unrevered ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappear'd. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they  : 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past ! 

All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth,  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perish'd — no  ! 
Kind  words,  remember'd  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat, 

All  shall  come  back  ;  each  tie 
Of  pure  perfection  shall  be  knit  again ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave^-the  beautiful  and  young. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BEAUTY. 

BY    EUFUS    DAWES. 

THE  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 
And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight ; 
I  know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 
By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  I  know  where  she  rested  at  night, 
For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  round  her  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  crimson  wings  ; 
Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high, 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstasy. 

At  noon  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat, 

Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet ; 

She  dimples  the  wave  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 

As  it  smilingly  curls  like  a  maiden's  lip, 

When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain, 

From  her  lover  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 

At  eve  she  hangs  o'er  the  western  sky 
Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy, 
And  round  the  skirts  of  their  deepen'd  fold 
She  paints  a  border  of  purple  and  gold, 
Where  the  lingering  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 
When  their  gofl  in  his  glory  has  pass'd  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power ; 

(46) 


TO    A    FLYING    SWAN.  47 

She  silvers  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 
With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream ; 
Then  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladden'd  air. 
The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  everywhere. 


TO    A    FLYING    SWAN 

AT    MIDNIGHT,    IN    THE    VALE    OF    THE    HURON.* 
BY    LEWIS    L.    NOBLE. 

OH,  what  a  still,  bright  night !    It  is  the  sleep 
Of  beauteous  Nature  in  her  bridal  hall. 
See,  while  the  groves  shadow  the  shining  lake, 
How  the  full-moon  does  bathe  their  melting  green ! — 
I  hear  the  dew-drop  twang  upon  the  pool. 
Hark,  hark,  what  music !  from  the  rampart  hills, 
How  like  a  far-off  bugle,  sweet  and  clear, 
It  searches  through  the  list'ning  wilderness  !  — 
A  Swan — I  know  it  by  the  trumpet-tone : 
Winging  her  pathless  way  in  the  cool  heavens, 
Piping  her  midnight  melody,  she  comes. 

Beautiful  bird !  upon  the  dusk  still  world 
Thou  fallest  like  an  angel — like  a  lone 
Sweet  angel  from  some  sphere  of  harmony. 
Where  art  thou,  where  ? — no  speck  upon  the  blue 
My  vision  marks  from  whence  thy  music  ranges. 
And  why  this  hour — this  voiceless  hour — is  thine, 
And  thine  alone,  I  cannot  tell.     Perchance, 
While  all  is  hush  and  silent  but  the  heart, 

*  The  river  Huron  rises  in  the  interior  of  Michigan,  and  flows  into 
Lake  Eric.  Its  clear  waters  gave  it  the  ,nu,mc  of  its  more  mighty 
kinsman,  Lake  Huron.  * 


48  TO     A     FLYING     SWAN. 

E'en  tliou  hast  human  sympathies  for  heaven, 
And  singest  yonder  in  the  holy  deep 
Because  thou  hast  a  pinion.     If  it  be, 
Oh,  for  a  wing,  upon  the  aerial  tide 
To  sail  with  thee  a  minstrel  mariner ! 

When  to  a  rarer  height  thou  wheelest  up, 
Hast  thou  that  awful  thrill  of  an  ascension — 
The  lone,  lost  feeling  in  the  vasty  vault  ? 
Oh,  for  thine  ear,  to  hear  the  ascending  tones 
Range  the  ethereal  chambers  !  —  then  to  feel 
A  harmony,  while  from  the  eternal  depth 
Steals  nought  but  the  pure  star-light  evermore ! 
And  then  to  list  the  echoes,  faint  arid  mellow, 
Far,  far  below,  breathe  from  the  hollow  earth, 
For  thee,  soft,  sweet  petition,  to  return. 

And  hither,  haply,  thou  wilt  shape  thy  neck ; 
And  settle,  like  a  silvery  cloud,  to  rest, 
If  thy  wild  image,  flaring  in  the  abyss, 
Startle  thee  not  aloft.     Lone  aeronaut, 
That  catchest,  on  thine  airy  looking-out, 
Glassing  the  hollow  darkness,  many  a  lake, 
Lay,  for  the  night,  thy  lily  bosom  here. 
There  is  the  deep  unsounded  for  thy  bath, 
The  shallow  for  the  shaking  of  thy  quills, 
The  dreamy  cove,  or  cedar-wooded  isle, 
With  galaxy  of  water-lilies,  where, 
Like  mild  Diana  'mong  the  quiet  stars, 
'Neath  over-bending  branches  thou  wilt  move, 
Till  early  warblers  shake  the  crystal  shower, 
And  whistling  pinions  warn  thee  to  thy  voyage. 

But  where  art  thou  ! — lost, — spirited  away 
To  bowers  of  light  by  thy  own  dying  whispers  1 
Or  does  some  billow  of  the  ocean-air, 


TO    A    FLYING    SWAN.  49 

In  its  still  roll  around  from  zone  to  zone, 
All  breathless  to  the  empyrean  heave  thee? — 

There  is  a  panting  in  the  zenith — hush!  — 
The  Swan  —  how  strong  her    great  wing  times  the 

silence ! — 
She  passes  over  high  and  quietly. 

Now  peals  the  living  clarion  anew ; 
One  vocal  shower  falls  in  and  fills  the  vale. 
What  witchery  in  the  wilderness  it  plays  !  — 
Shrill  snort  the  affrighted  deer ;  across  the  lake 
The  loon,  sole  sentinel,  screams  loud  alarm ;  — 
The  shy  fox  barks ; — tingling  in  every  vein 
I  feel  the  wild  enchantment ; — hark  !  they  come, 
The  dulcet  echoes  from  the  distant  hills, 
Like  fainter  horns  responsive ;  all  the  while, 
From  misty  isles,  soft-stealing  symphonies. 

Thou  bright,  swift  river  of  the  bark  canoe, 
Threading  the  prairie-ponds  of  Washtenung, 
The  day  of  romance  wanes.     Few  summers  more, 
And  the  long  night  will  pass  away  unwaked, 
Save  by  the  house-dog,  or  the  village  bell ; 
And  she,  thy  minstrel  queen,  her  ermine  dip 
In  lonelier  waters. 

Ah  !  thou  wilt  not  stoop  : 
Old  Huron,  haply,  glistens  on  thy  sky. 
The  chasing  moon- beams,  glancing  on  thy  plumes, 
Reveal  thee  now,  a  little  beating  blot, 
Into  the  pale  Aurora  fading. 

There ! 

Sinks  gently  back  upon  her  flowery  couch 
The  startled  Night ; — tinkle  the  damp  wood-vaults 
While  slip  the  dew-pearls  from  her  leafy  curtains. 
That  last  soft  whispering  note,  how  spirit-like ! 
While  vainly  yet  mine  ear  another  waits, 
A  sad,  sweet  longing  lingers  in  my  heart. 
5 


THE   LITTLE   BEACH-BIRD. 

BY    KICHARD    H.    DANA. 

THOV  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  1 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er   the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
Oh,  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea ; 
Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us  :  Thy  wail — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad,  as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 
The  Mystery — the  Word. 

Of  thousands,  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean,  art !    A  requiem  o'er  the  dead, 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells— 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  ^lory  fled. 

l^hen  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 

(50) 


THE     FAMILY     MEETING.  51 

Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore, 
For  gladness  and  the  light, 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


THE   FAMILY   MEETING. 

BY    CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

WE  are  all  here  ! 

Father,  Mother, 

Sister,  Brother, 
All  who  hold  each  other  dear. 
Each  chair  is  filPd — we  're  all  at  home : 
To-night  let  no  cold  stranger  come : 
It  is  not  often  thus  around 
Our  old  familiar  hearth  we  're  found : 
Bless,  then,  the  meeting  and  the  spot ; 
For  once  be  every  care  forgot  ; 
Let  gentle  Peace  assert  her  power, 
And  kind  Affection  rule  the  hour ; 

We  're  all— all  here. 

We  're  not  all  here  ! 
Some  are  away — the  dead  ones  dear, 
Who  throng'd  with  us  this  ancient  hearthj 
And  gave  the  hour  to  guiltless  mirth. 
Fate,  with  a  stern,  relentless  hand, 
Look'd  in  and  thinnM  our  little  band : 
Some  like  a  night-flash  pass'd  away, 
And  some  sank,  lingering,  day  by  day  ; 
The  quiet  graveyard — some  lie  there — 
And  cruel  Ocean  has  his  share — 

We  're  not  all  here. 


52  THE     FAMILY     MEETING, 

We  are  all  here  ! 

Even  they — the  dead — though  dead,  so  dear ; 
Fond  Memory,  to  her  duty  true, 
Brings  back  their  faded  forms  to  view. 
How  life-like,  through  the  mist  of  years, 
Each  well-remember'd  face  appears ! 
We  see  them,  as  in  times  long  past, 
From  each  to  each  kind  looks  are  cast ; 
We  hear  their  words,  their  smiles  behold, 
They  're  round  us,  as  they  were  of  old — 

We  are  all  here. 

We  are  all  here  I 

Father,  Mother, 

Sister,  Brother, 

You  that  I  love  with  love  so  dear. 
This  may  not  long  of  us  be  said ; 
Soon  must  we  join  the  gather'd  dead  ; 
And  by  the  hearth  we  now  sit  round, 
Some  other  circle  will  be  found. 
Oh !  then,  that  wisdom  may  we  know, 
Which  yields  a  life  of  peace  below ; 
So,  in  the  world  to  follow  this, 
May  each  repeat,  in  words  of  bliss, 

We 're  all— all  here! 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM, 

BY    WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 

HERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarled  pines, 
That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses  ;  here  the  ground 
Was  never  touch'd  by  spades,  and  flowers  spring  up 
Unsown,  and  die  ungather'd.     It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds 
\nd  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks  and  winds 
That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter  as  they  pass 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars  thickly  set 
With  pale  blue  berries.     In  these  peaceful  shades — 
Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 
My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 
Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  Liberty. 

O  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 
With  which  the  Roman  master  crown'd  his  slave, 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves,     A  bearded  man, 
Arm'd  to  the  teeth,  art  thou :  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword  ;  thy  brow, 
Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarr'd 
With  tokens  of  old  wars  ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  and  struggling.     Power  at  thee  has  laimchM 
His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from  Heaven. 
Merciless  Power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armourers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet  while  he  deems  thee  bound, 
The  links  are  shiver'd,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward ;  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 

£  *  (53) 


54  ANTIQUITY    OF    FREEDOM. 

And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

Thy  birth-right  was  not  given  by  human  hands : 
Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  satst  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side  amid  the  tangled  wood 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
Thine  only  foes :  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  Deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obey'd, 
Is  later  born  than  thou ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  \vax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age ; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler ;  he  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  wither'd  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  fair  and  gallant  mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear ;  while  his  sly  imps  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  conceal'd  in  chaplets.     Oh  !  not  yet 
May'st  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  or  lay  by 
Thy  sword,  nor  yet,  O  Freedom !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat,  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  Earth  and  Heaven.     But  wouldst  thou  rest 


THE     STEAMBOAT.  55 

A  while  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 
These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  inviolated  Earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 


THE   STEAMBOAT. 

BY    O.    W.    HOLMES. 

SEE  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 
The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heap'd  and  glistening  bells, 
Falls  round  her  fast  in  ringing  showers, 

With  every  wave  that  swells  ; 
And,  flaming  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 
With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by  ! 
When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 


56  THE    STEAMBOAT. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er, 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrow'd  sail ; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scoop'd  and  strain'd, 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stain'd 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark  !  hark  !  T  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 
An  hour,  and,  whirl'd  like  winnowing  chaff, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon-staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing ! 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire ; 
Sleep  on — and  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
Oh,  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day  ! 


"PASSING   AWAY." 

BY   JOHN    PIERPONT. 

WAS  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, — 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear, 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  moon  and  the  fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he,  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  1 — 

Hark !  the  notes,  on  my  ear  that  play, 

Are  set  to  words : — as  they  float,  they  say, 
"  Passing  away  \  passing  away  !" 

But  no !  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear ; 

Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell, 
Striking  the  hour,  that  fill'd  my  ear, 

As  1  lay  in  my  dream ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 

That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 

For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung, 

And  a  plump  little  girl  for  a  pendulum  swung ; 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen  in  a  little  ring 

That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  Canary  bird  swing ;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And  as  she  enjoy'd  it,  she  seem'd  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

Oh,  how  bright  were  the  wheels  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time  as  they  moved  round  slow, 

And  the  hands  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 
Seem'd  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 


58  "PASSING    AWAY." 

And  lo !  she  had  changed  ; — in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretch'd  hands,  and  flung 

This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung ; 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
,-:        "  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

While  I  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 

Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 
And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 

That  march'd  so  calmly  round  above  her, 
Was  a  little  dimm'd, — as  when  evening  steals 

Upon  noon's  hot  face  : — yet  one  could  n't  but  love  her, 
For  she  look'd  like  a  mother,  whose  first  babe  lay 

Rock'd  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; — 

And  she  seem'd,  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 

While  yet  I  look'd,  what  a  change  there  came ! 

Her  eye  was  quench'd,  and  her  cheek  was  wan; 
Stooping  and  stafTd  was  her  wither'd  frame, 

Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on ; 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust  ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnish'd,  but  on  they  kept, 


INDIAN     NAMES.  59 

And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 

From  the  shrivell'd  lips  of  the  toothless  crone, — 

(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 

The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay,) — 

"  Passing  away  !  passing  away !" 


INDIAN    NAMES. 

BY    MRS.    LYDIA    HUNTLEY    SIGOUKNEY. 

"  How  can  the  red  men  be  forgotten,  while  so  many  of  our  states 
and  territories,  bays,  lakes,  and  rivers,  are  indelibly  stamped  by  names 
of  their  giving  ? " 

YE  say  they  all  have  pass'd  away, 

That  noble  race  and  brave, 
That  their  light  canoes  have  vanish'd 

From  off  the  crested  wave. 
That,  mid  the  forests  where  they  roam'd, 

There  rings  no  hunter's  shout ; 
But  their  name  is  on  your  waters, 

Ye  may  not  wash  it  out. 

'T  is  where  Ontario's  billow 

Like  ocean's  surge  is  curl'd, 
Where  strong  Niagara's  thunders  wake 

The  echo  of  the  world, 
Where  red  Missouri  bringeth 

Rich  tribute  from  the  west, 
And  Rappahannock  sweetly  sleeps 

On  green  Virginia's  breast. 

Ye  say  their  conelike  cabins, 

That  cluster'd  o'er  the  vale, 
Have  disappear'd,  as  wither'd  leaves 

Before  the  autumn's  gale  j 


60  APRIL. 

But  their  memory  liveth  on  your  hills, 
Their  baptism  on  your  shore, 

Your  everlasting  rivers  speak 
Their  dialect  of  yore. 

Old  Massachusetts  wears  it 

Within  her  lordly  crown, 
And  broad  Ohio  bears  it 

Amid  his  young  renown. 
Connecticut  hath  wreathed  it 

Where  her  quiet  foliage  waves, 
And  bold  Kentucky  breathes  it  hoarse 

Through  all  her  ancient  caves. 

Wachusett  hides  its  lingering  voice 

Within  his  rocky  heart, 
And  Alleghany  graves  its  tone 

Throughout  his  lofty  chart. 
Monadnock,  on  his  forehead  hoar, 

Doth  seal  the  sacred  trust, 
Your  mountains  build  their  monument, 

Though  ye  destroy  their  dust. 


APRIL. 

BY    NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS. 

I  HAVE  found  violets.     April  hath  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer  time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning,  and  at  eve 
The  tame  dove  lingers  till  the  twilight  falls, 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His  beautiful  bright  neck,  and,  from  the  hills, 


APRIL.  (31 

A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea 

Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 

Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 

Are  lifted  by  the  grass ;  and  so  I  know 

That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 

The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 

Take  of  my  violets !     I  found  them  where 

The  liquid  South  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 

That  lean'd  to  running  water.     There  's  to  me 

A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers 

That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 

With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 

The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  and  breathe  out 

Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 

Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world. 

I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 

Of  April  and  hunt  violets  ;  when  the  rain 

Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 

So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 

It  may  be  deem'd  too  idle,  but  the  young 

Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  heaven, 

And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 

Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 

And  read  it  when  the  "  fever  of  the  world" 

Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 

Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoison'd,  it  will  be 

Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow, 

And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 

To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April  time. 


4-4 


FOOTSTEPS    OP    ANGELS. 

BY    H.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  number'd, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumber'd, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlour  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door ; 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherish'd 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perish'd, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  mer 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven, 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 


AUGUST.  63 


And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saintlike, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Utter'd  not,  yet  comprehended, 
Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oil  depress'd  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside 

If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


AUGUST. 

BY    WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 

DUST  on  thy  mantle  !  dust, 
Bright  Summer,  on  thy  livery  of  green ! 

A  tarnish,  as  of  rust, 

Dims  thy  late-brilliant  sheen  : 
And  thy  young  glories — leaf,  and  bud,  and  flower- 
Change  cometh  over  them  with  every  hour. 

Thee  hath  the  August  sun 
Look'd  on  with  hot,  and  fierce,  and  brassy  face ; 
And  still  and  lazily  run, 
Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 
The  half-dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  gladness  up,  as  on  they  went. 


G4  AUGUST. 

Flame-like,  the  long  midday, 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  hath  stirr'd 
The  down  upon  the  spray, 
Where  rests  the  panting  bird, 
Dozing  away  the  hot  and  tedious  noon, 
With  fitful  twitter,  sadly  out  of  tune. 

Seeds  in  the  sultry  air, 

And  gossamer  web-work  on  the  sleeping  trees ; 
E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 
Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  unfreshening  west, 
Partake  the  general  languor,  and  deep  rest. 

Happy,  as  man  may  be, 

Stretch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  bean-vine  bower, 
While  the  voluptuous  bee 
Robs  each  surrounding  flower, 
And  prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his  breast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noonday  rest. 

Against  the  hazy  sky 
The  thin  and  fleecy  clouds,  unmoving,  rest. 

Beneath  them  far,  yet  high 

In  the  dim,  distant  west, 
The  vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion-fare, 
Sails,  slowly  circling  in  the  sunny  air. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
Repose  the  patient  cow,  and  toil-worn  ox  ; 

Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 

Shelter'd  by  jutting  rocks : 
The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourged  and  restless,  rush 
Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to  bush. 


AUGUST.  65 

Tediously  pass  the  hours, 
And  vegetation  wilts,  with  blister'd  root, 
And  droop  the  thirsting  flowers, 
Where  the  slant  sunbeams  shoot : 
But  of  each  tall,  old  tree,  the  lengthening  line, 
Slow-creeping  eastward,  marks  the  day's  decline. 

Faster,  along  the  plain, 
Moves  now  the  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's  edge : 

The  kine  are  forth  again, 

The  bird  flits  in  the  hedge. 
Now  in  the  molten  west  sinks  the  hot  sun. 
Welcome,  mild  eve ! — the  sultry  day  is  done. 

Pleasantly  comest  thou, 
Dew  of  the  evening,  to  the  crisp'd-up  grass ; 

And  the  curl'd  corn-blades  bow, 

As  the  light  breezes  pass, 

That  their  parch'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and  expand, 
Thou  sweet  reviver  of  the  fever'd  land. 

So,  to  the  thirsting  soul, 
Cometh  the  dew  of  the  Almighty's  love ; 

And  the  scathed  heart,  made  whole, 

Turneth  in  joy  above, 
To  where  the  spirit  freely  may  expand, 
And  rove,  untrammelPd,  in  that  "  better  land." 

6* 


TO  THE  PAINTED  COLUMBINE. 

BY    JONES    VERY. 

BRIGHT  image   of  the  early  years 

When  glow'd  my  cheek  as  red  as  thou, 
And  life's  dark  throng  of  cares  and  fears 
Were  swift-wing'd  shadows  o'er  my  sunny  brow ! 

Thou  blushest  from  the  painter's  page, 

Robed  in  the  mimic  tints  of  art ; 
But  Nature's  hand  in  youth's  green  age 
With  fairer  hues  first  traced  thee  on  my  heart. 

The  morning's  blush,  she  made  it  thine, 

The  morn's  sweet  blush  s'he  gave  it  thee ; 
And  in  thy  look,  my  Columbine ! 
Each  fond-remember'd  spot  she  bade  me  see. 

I  see  the  hill's  far-gazing  head, 

Where  gay  thou  noddest  in  the  gale ; 
I  hear  light-bounding  footsteps  tread 
The  grassy  path  that  winds  along  the  vale. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  woodland  song 

Break  from  each  bush  and  well-known  tree, 
And,  on  light  pinions  borne  along, 
Comes  back  the  laugh  from  childhood's  heart  of  glee. 

O'er  the  dark  rock  the  dashing  brook, 

With  look  of  anger,  leaps  again, 

And,  hastening  to  each  flowery  nook, 

Its  distant  voice  is  heard  far  down  the  glen. 

Fair  child  of  art !  thy  charms  decay, 

Touch'd  by  the  wither'd  hand  of  Time ; 
And  hush'd  the  music  of  that  day, 
When  my  voice  mingled  with  the  streamlet's  chime ; 

(66) 


THE     EARLY     DEAD.  67 

But  on  my  heart  thy  cheek  of  bloom 

Shall  live  when  Nature's  smile  has  fled ; 
And,  rich  with  memory's  sweet  perfume, 
Shall  o'er  her  grave  thy  tribute  incense  shed. 

There  shalt  thou  live  and  wake  the  glee 

That  echo'd  on  thy  native  hill ; 
And  when,  loved  flower !  I  think  of  thee, 
My  infant  feet  will  seem  to  seek  thee  still. 


THE    EARLY   DEAD. 

BY    WILLIS    G.    CLARK. 

IF  it  be  sad  to  mark  the  bow'd  with  age 
Sink  in  the  halls  of  the  remorseless  tomb, 

Closing  the  changes  of  life's  pilgrimage 

In  the  still  darkness  of  the  mouldering  gloom : 

Oh,  what  a  shadow  o'er  the  heart  is  flung, 

When  peals  the  requiem  of  the  loved  and  young ! 

They  to  whose  bosoms,  like  the  dawn  of  spring 
To  the  unfolding  bud  arid  scented  rose, 

Comes  the  pure  freshness  age  can  never  bring, 
And  fills  the  spirit  with  a  rich  repose, 

How  shall  we  lay  them  in  their  final  rest, 

How  pile  the  clods  upon  their  wasting  breast  ? 

Life  openeth  brightly  to  their  ardent  gaze  ; 

A  glorious  pomp  sits  on  the  gorgeous  sky ; 
O'er  the  broad  world  hope's  smile  incessant  plays, 

And  scenes  of  beauty  win  the  enchanted  eye : 
How  sad  to  break  the  vision,  and  to  fold 
Each  lifeless  form  in  earth's  embracing  mould  ! 


68  THE     PRAIRIES. 

Yet  this  is  life !     To  mark  from  day  to  day, 
Youth,  in  the  freshness  of  its  morning  prime, 

Pass,  like  the  anthem  of  a  breeze  away, 

Sinking  in  waves  of  death  ere  chill'd  by  time ! 

Ere  yet  dark  years  on  the  warm  cheek  had  shed 

Autumnal  mildew  o'er  the  rose-like  red ! 

And  yet  what  mourner,  though  the  pensive  eye 
Be  dimly  thoughtful  in  its  burning  tears, 

But  should  with  rapture  gaze  upon  the  sky, 

Through  whose  far  depths  the  spirit's  wing  careers  ? 

There  gleams  eternal  o'er  their  ways  are  flung, 

Who  fade  from  earth  while  yet  their  years  are  young ! 


THE    PRAIRIES. 

BY    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

THESE  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 
The  Prairies.     I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.     Lo  !  they  stretch 
In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fix'd, 
And  motionless  for  ever.     Motionless  1 
No,  they  are  all  unchain'd  again.     The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along,  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South ! 


THE     PRAIRIES. 


69 


Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk,  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have  play'd 
Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
Of  Texas,  and  have  crisp'd  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fann'd 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work : 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smooth'd  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown  their  slopes 
With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.     Fitting  floor 
For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky — 
With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 
Rival  the  constellations  !     The  great  heavens 
Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love — 
A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 
Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 
As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high,  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his  sides, 
The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.     I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.     Are  they  here— ~ 
The  dead  of  other  days  ?  and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And  burn  with  passion  ?     Let  the  mighty  mounds 
That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest,  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.     A  race  that  long  has  pass'd  away, 
Built  them  ;  a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heap'd,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the  Greek 
Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 


70  THE    PRAIRIES. 

The  glittering  Parthenon.     These  ample  fields 

Nourish'd  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were  fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  low'd, 

And  bow'd  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 

All  day  this  desert  murmur'd  with  their  toils, 

Till  twilight  blush'd,  and  lovers  walk'd,  and  woo'd 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 

From  instruments  of  unremember'd  form, 

Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.     The  red  man  came — 

The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 

And  the  mound-builders  vanish'd  from  the  earth. 

The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 

Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.     The  prairie-wolf 

Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 

Yawns  by  my  path.     The  gopher  mines  the  ground 

Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.     All  is  gone — 

All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their  bones — 

The  platforms  where  they  worshipp'd  unknown  gods- 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 

To  keep  the  foe  at  bay— till  o'er  the  walls 

The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 

The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced,  and  heap'd 

With  corpses.     The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 

Flock'd  to  those  vast  uncover'd  sepulchres, 

And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 

Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 

Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 

Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 

Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 

Man's  better  nature  triumph'd.     Kindly  words 

Welcomed  and  sooth'd  him ;  the  rude  conquerors 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs ;  he  chose 

A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 

Seem'd  to  forget — yet  ne'er  forgot — the  wife 


THE    PRAIRIES.  71 

Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butcher'd,  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.     Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things,  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.     The  red  man,  too, 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.     The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face ;  among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregon, 
He  rears  his  little  Venice.     In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.     Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps ;  yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamp'd  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds  that  scarce  have  learn'd  the  fear  of  man, 
Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.     The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.     The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.     I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which  soon  shall  fill  the  deserts.     From  the  ground 


72  THE     CORAL     GROVE. 

Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soil  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.     The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.     All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


THE   CORAL   GROVE. 

BY    J.    G.    PERCIVAL. 

DEEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  goldfish  rove, 

Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 

That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 

Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine ; 

The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 

And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 

From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 

Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow ; 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 

And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air : 

There  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 

And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter : 

There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea ; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea : 


THE    LOST    HUNTER.  73 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 
Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 
And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own : 
And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 
Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 
And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore ; 
Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea, 
The  purple  mullet  and  goldfish  rove, 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 


THE   LOST   HUNTER. 

BY    ALFRED    B.  STREET. 

NUMB'D  by  the  piercing,  freezing  air, 

And  burden'd  by  his  game, 
The  hunter,  struggling  with  despair, 

Dragg'd  on  his  shivering  frame ; 
The  rifle  he  had  shoulder'd  late 
Was  traiPd  along,  a  weary  weight ; 

His  pouch  was  void  of  food ; 
The  hours  were  speeding  in  their  flight, 
And  soon  the  long,  keen,  winter  night 

Would  wrap  the  solitude. 

Oft  did  he  stoop  a  listening  ear, 
Sweep  round  an  anxious  eye, — 

No  bark  or  axe-blow  could  he  hear, 
No  human  trace  descry. 

7 


74  THE     LOST     HUNTER. 

His  sinuous  path,  by  blazes,  wound 
Among  trunks  group'd  in  myriads  round ; 

Through  naked  boughs,  between 
Whose  tangled  architecture,  fraught 
With  many  a  shape  grotesquely  wrought, 

The  hemlock's  spire  was  seen. 

An  antler'd  dweller  of  the  wild 

Had  met  his  eager  gaze, 
And  far  his  wandering  steps  beguiled 

Within  an  unknown  maze ; 
Stream,  rock,  and  run-way  he  had  cross'd, 
Unheeding,  till  the  marks  were  lost 

By  which  he  used  to  roam ; 
And  now,  deep  swamp  and  wild  ravine 
And  rugged  mountains  were  between 

The  hunter  and  his  home. 

A  dusky  haze  which  slow  had  crept 

On  high,  now  darken'd  there, 
And  a  few  snow-flakes  fluttering  swept 

Athwart  the  thick,  gray  air, 
Faster  and  faster,  till  between 
The  trunks  and  boughs,  a  mottled  screen 

Of  glimmering  motes  was  spread, 
That  tick'd  against  each  object  round 
With  gentle  and  continuous  sound, 

Like  brook  o'er  pebbled  bed. 

The  laurel  tufts  that  drooping  hung 
Close  roll'd  around  their  stems, 

And  the  sear  beech-leaves  still  that  clung, 
Were  white  with  powdering  gems. 

But,  hark  !  afar  a  sullen  moan 

Swell'd  out  to  louder,  deeper  tone, 
As  surging  near  it  pass'd, 


THE     LOST     HUNTER.  75 

And,  bursting  with  a  roar,  and  shock 
That  made  the  groaning  forest  rock, 
On  rush'd  the  winter  blast. 

As  o'er  it  whistled,  shriek'd,  and  hiss'd, 

Caught  by  its  swooping  wings, 
The  snow  was  whirl'd  to  eddying  mist, 

Barb'd,  as  it  seem'd,  with  stings  ; 
And  now  'twas  swept  with  lightning  flight 
Above  the  loftiest  hemlock's  height, 

Like  drifting  smoke,  and  now 
It  hid  the  air  with  shooting  clouds, 
And  robed  the  trees  with  circling  shrouds, 

Then  dash'd  in  heaps  below. 

Here,  plunging  in  a  billowy  wreath, 

There,  clinging  to  a  limb, 
The  suffering  hunter  gasp'd  for  breath, 

Brain  reel'd,  and  eye  grew  dim ; 
As  though  to  whelm  him  in  despair, 
Rapidly  changed  the  blackening  air 

To  murkiest  gloom  of  night, 
Till  nought  was  seen  around,  below, 
But  falling  flakes  and  mantled  snow, 

That  gleam'd  in  ghastly  white. 

At  every  blast  an  icy  dart 

Seem'd  through  his  nerves  to  fly, 

The  blood  was  freezing  to  his  heart- 
Thought  whisper'd  he  must  die. 

The  thundering  tempest  echo'd  death, 

He  felt  it  in  his  tighten'd  breath ; 
Spoil,  rifle,  dropp'd,  and  slow, 

As  the  dread  torpor  crawling  came 

Along  his  staggering  stiffening  frame, 
He  sunk  upon  the  snow. 


76  THE    LOST    HUNTER. 

Reason  forsook  her  shatter'd  throne, — 

He  deem'd  that  summer-hours 
Again  around  him  brightly  shone 

In  sunshine,  leaves,  and  flowers ; 
Again  the  fresh,  green  forest- sod, 
Rifle  in  hand,  he  lightly  trod, — 

He  heard  the  deer's  low  bleat ; 
Or,  couch'd  within  the  shadowy  nook, 
He  drank  the  crystal  of  the  brook 

That  murmur'd  at  his  feet. 

It  changed ; — his  cabin  roof  o'erspread, 

Rafter,  and  wall,  and  chair, 
Gleam'd  in  the  crackling  fire,  that  shed 

Its  warmth,  and  he  was  there ; 
His  wife  had  clasp'd  his  hand,  and  now 
Her  gentle  kiss  was  on  his  brow, 

His  child  was  prattling  by, 
The  hound  crouch'd,  dozing,  near  the  blaze, 
And  through  the  pane's  frost-pictured  haze 

He  saw  the  white  drifts  fly. 

That  pass'd ; — before  his  swimming  sight 

Does  not  a  figure  bound, 
And  a  soft  voice,  with  wild  delight, 

Proclaim  the  lost  is  found  ? 
No,  hunter,  no !  'tis  but  the  streak 
Of  whirling  snow — the  tempest's  shriek — 

No  human  aid  is  near ! 
Never  again  that  form  will  meet 
Thy  clasp'd  embrace — those  accents  sweet 

Speak  music  to  thine  ear. 

Morn  broke ; — away  the  clouds  were  chased, 
The  sky  was  pure  and  bright, 

And  on  its  blue  the  branches  traced 
Their  webs  of  glittering  white. 


THE    LOST    HUNTER.  77 

Its  ivory  roof  the  hemlock  stoop'd, 
The  pine  its  silvery  tassel  droop'd, 

Down  bent  the  burden'd  wood, 
And,  scatter'd  round,  low  points  of  green, 
Peering  above  the  snowy  scene, 

Told  where  the  thickets  stood. 

In  a  deep  hollow,  drifted  high, 

A  wave-like  heap  was  thrown, 
Dazzlingly  in  the  sunny  sky 

A  diamond  blaze  it  shone ; 
The  little  snow-bird,  chirping  sweet, 
Dotted  it  o'er  with  tripping  feet ; 

Unsullied,  smooth,  and  fair, 
It  seem'd,  like  other  mounds,  where  trunk 
And  rock  amid  the  wreaths  were  sunk, 

But,  O  !  the  dead  was  there. 

Spring  came  with  wakening  breezes  bland, 

Soft  suns  and  melting  rains, 
And,  touch'd  by  her  Ithuriel  wand, 

Earth  bursts  its  winter-chains. 
In  a  deep  nook,  where  moss  and  grass 
And  fern-leaves  wove  a  verdant  mass, 

Some  scatter'd  bones  beside, 
A  mother,  kneeling  with  her  child, 
Told  by  her  tears  and  wailings  wild 

That  there  the  lost  had  died. 

7* 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.* 

BY    FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

AT  midnight,  in  his    guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  : 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  : 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet-ring : 
Then  press'd  that  monarch's  throne — a  king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden-bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

BOZZARIS  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  Plataea's  day ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquer'd  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 


*  He  fell  in  an  attack  upon  the  Turkish  camp  at  Laspi,  the  site  of 
the  ancient  Platsea,  August  20,  1823,  and  expired  in  the  moment  of 
victory.  His  last  words  were :  "  To  die  for  liberty  is  a  pleasure,  not 

a  pain," 

(78) 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  79 

An  hour  pass'd  on — the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

"  To  arms  !  they  come !  the  Greek !  the  Greek !" 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from 'the  mountain-cloud  j 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

BOZZARIS  cheer  his  band  ; 
"  Strike — till  the  last  arm'd  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 
Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 

GOD — and  your  native  land  !" 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 
They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquer'd — but  BOZZARIS  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won : 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  firstborn's  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake-shock,  the  ocean-storm, 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 


80  MARCO    BOZZARIS. 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prison'd  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

BOZZARIS  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb ; 


THE    VILLAGE     BLACKSMITH.  81 

But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells ; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells  ; 
For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 
His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears : 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak. 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH, 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

UNDER  a  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smithy  stands  ; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands  ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bandst 


82  THE     VILLAGE     BLACKSMITH. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long ; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan  ; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat ; 

He  earns  whate'er  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  a  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 
And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a  threshing-floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 
And  sits  among  his  boys ; 

He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 
He  hears  his  daughter's  voice, 

Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise  ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies  ; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 


SUNSET    IN    SEPTEMBER.  83 

Toiling — rejoicing — sorrowing — 

Onward  through  life  he  goes : 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close ; 
Something  attempted — something  done, 

Has  earn'd  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 
Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  Life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought, 
Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 


SUNSET   IN   SEPTEMBER. 

BY    CARLOS    WILCOX. 

THE  sun  now  rests  upon  the  mountain  tops — 
Begins  to  sink  behind — is  half  conceal'd — 
And  now  is  gone  :  the  last  faint,  twinkling  beam 
Is  cut  in  twain  by  the  sharp  rising  ridge. 
Sweet  to  the  pensive  is  departing  day, 
When  only  one  small  cloud,  so  stilt  and  thin, 
So  thoroughly  imbued  with  amber  light, 
And  so  transparent,  that  it  seems  a  spot 
Of  brighter  sky,  beyond  the  farthest  mount, 
Hangs  o'er  the  hidden  orb ;  or  where  a  few 
Long  narrow  strips  of  denser,  darker  grain, 
i,  At  each  end  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  point, 
With  golden  borders,  sometimes  straight  and  smooth, 
And  sometimes  crinkling  like  the  lightning  stream, 
A  half  hour's  space  above  the  mountain  lie ; 
Or  when  the  whole  consolidated  mass, 


64  SUNSET    IN     SEPTEMBER. 

That  only  threaten'd  rain,  is  broken  up 
Into  a  thousand  parts,  and  yet  is  one, 
One  as  the  ocean  broken  into  waves ; 
And  all  its  spongy  parts,  imbibing  deep 
The  moist  effulgence,  seem  like  fleeces  dyed 
Deep  scarlet,  saffron  light,  or  crimson  dark, 
As  they  are  thick  or  thin,  or  near  or  more  remote, 
All  fading  soon  as  lower  sinks  the  sun, 
Till  twilight  end.     But  now  another  scene, 
To  me  most  beautiful  of  all,  appears : 
The  sky,  without  the  shadow  of  a  cloud, 
Throughout  the  west,  is  kindled  to  a  glow 
So  bright  and  broad,  it  glares  upon  the  eye, 
Not  dazzling,  but  dilating  with  calm  force 
Its  power  of  vision  to  admit  the  whole. 
Below,  'tis  all  of  richest  orange  dye, 
Midway,  the  blushing  of  the  mellow  peach 
Paints  not,  but  tinges  the  ethereal  deep ; 
And  here,  in  this  most  lovely  region,  shines, 
With  added  loveliness,  the  evening-star. 
Above,  the  fainter  purple  slowly  fades, 
Till  changed  into  the  azure  of  mid  heaven. 
Along  the  level  ridge,  o'er  which  the  sun 
Descended,  in  a  single  row  arranged, 
As  if  thus  planted  by  the  hand  of  art, 
Majestic  pines  shoot  up  into  the  sky, 
And  in  its  fluid  gold  seem  half-dissolved. 
Upon  a  nearer  peak  a  cluster  stands 
With  shafts  erect,  and  tops  converged  to  one, 
A  stately  colonnade,  with  verdant  roof; 
Upon  a  nearer  still,  a  single  tree, 
With  shapely  form  looks  beautiful  alone ; 
While,  farther  northward,  through  a  narrow  pass 
Scoop'd  in  the  hither  range,  a  single  mount 


85 


Beyond  the  rest,  of  finer  smoothness  seems, 
And  of  a  softer,  more  ethereal  blue, 
A  pyramid  of  polish'd  sapphire  built. 

But  now  the  twilight  mingles  into  one 
The  various  mountains ;  levels  to  a  plain 
This  nearer,  lower  landscape,  dark  with  shade, 
Where  every  object  to  my  sight  presents 
Its  shaded  side ;  while  here  upon  these  walls, 
And  in  that  eastern  wood,  upon  the  trunks 
Under  thick  foliage,  reflective  shows 
Its  yellow  lustre.     How  distinct  the  line 
Of  the  horizon,  parting  heaven  and  earth ! 


THE    BOB-O'LINKUM. 

BY    CHARLES    F.    HOFFMAN. 

THOU  vocal  sprite  !  thou  feather'd  troubadour  ! 

In  pilgrim  weeds  through  many  a  clime  a  ranger, 
Com'st  thou  to  doff  thy  russet  suit  once  more, 

And  play  in  foppish  trim  the  masquing  stranger  ? 
Philosophers  may  teach  thy  whereabouts  and  nature 

But,  wise  as  all  of  us,  perforce,  must  think  'em, 
The  schoolboy  best  hath  fix'd  thy  nomenclature, 

And  poets,  too,  must  call  thee  Bob-O'Linkum ! 

Say !  art  thou,  long  mid  forest  glooms  benighted, 

So  glad  to  skim  our  laughing  meadows  over, 
With  our  gay  orchards  here  so  much  delighted, 

It  makes  thee  musical,  thou  airy  rover? 
Or  are  those  buoyant  notes  the  pilfer'd  treasure 

Of  fairy  isles,  which  thou  hast  learn'd  to  ravish 
Of  all  their  sweetest  minstrelsy  at  pleasure, 

And,  Ariel-like,  again  on  men  to  lavish '/ 
8 


86  THE     BOB-o'tlNKT/M, 

They  tell  sad  stories  of  thy  mad-cap  freaks ; 

Wherever  o'er  the  land  thy  pathway  ranges ; 
And  even  in  a  brace  of  wandering  weeks, 

They  say,  alike  thy  song  and  plumage  changes : 
Here  both  are  gay ;  and  when  the  buds  put  forth, 

And  leafy  June  is  shading  rock  and  river, 
Thou  art  unmatch'd,  blithe  warbler  of  the  north, 

When  through  the  balmy  air  thy  clear  notes  quiver. 

Joyous,  yet  tender,  was  that  gush  of  song 

Caught  from  the  brooks,  where,  mid  its  wild-flowers 

smiling, 
The  silent  prairie  listens  all  day  long, 

The  only  captive  to  such  sweet  beguiling ; 
Or  didst  thou,  flitting  through  the  verdurous  halls 

And  column'd  aisles  of  western  groves  symphonious, 
Learn  from  the  tuneful  woods  rare  madrigals, 

To  make  our  flowering  pastures  here  harmonious  ? 

Caught'st  thou  thy  carol  from  Otawa  maid, 

Where,  through  the  liquid  fields  of  wild  rice  plashing, 
Brushing  the  ears  from  off  the  burden'd  blade, 

Her  birch  canoe  o'er  some  lone  lake  is  flashing  ? 
Or  did  the  reeds  of  some  savanna  south 

Detain  thee  while  thy  northern  flight  pursuing, 
To  place  those  melodies  in  thy  sweet  mouth 

The  spice-fed  winds  had  taught  them  in  their  wooing  ? 

Unthrifty  prodigal !  is  no  thought  of  ill 

Thy  ceaseless  roundelay  disturbing  ever  ? 
Or  doth  each  pulse  in  choiring  cadence  still 

Throb  on  in  music  till  at  rest  forever  ? 
Yet  now  in  wilder'd  maze  of  concord  floating, 

'T  would  seem  that  glorious  hymning  to  prolong, 
Old  Time,  in  hearing  thee,  might  fall  a  doting, 

And  pause  to  listen  to  thy  rapturous  song  ! 


ROSALIE. 

BY    WASHINGTON    ALLSTON. 

OH,  pour  upon  my  soul  again 

That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 
That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 
Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 
As  if  some  melancholy  star 
Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs 

And  dropp'd  them  from  the  skies. 

No — never  came  from  aught  below 

This  melody  of  woe, 
That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow 
As  from  a  thousand  gushing  springs 
Unknown  before ;  that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light — if  light  it  be — 

That  veils  the  world  I  seef 

For  all  I  see  around  me  wears 

The  hue  of  other  spheres  ; 
And  something  blent  with  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I  breathe. 
Oh,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath, 
Can  mould  a  sadness  like  to  this — 

So  like  angelic  bliss. 

So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day 

When  the  last  lingering  ray 
Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play — 
So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie 
As  on  her  maiden  revery 
First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 

In  music  to  her  soul. 

(87) 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN. 

BY    HANNAH    F.    GOULD. 

"  I  AM  a  Pebble !  and  yield  to  none  !" 
Were  the  swelling  words  of  a  tiny  stone ! — 
"  Nor  time  nor  seasons  can  alter  me ; 
I  am  abiding,  while  ages  flee. 
The  pelting  hail,  and  the  drizzling  rain, 
Have  tried  to  soften  me,  long,  in  vain ; 
And  the  tender  dew  has  sought  to  melt 
Or  touch  my  heart ;  but  it  was  not  felt. 
There's  none  that  can  tell  about  my  birth, 
For  I  'm  as  old  as  -the  big  round  earth. 
The  children  of  men  arise,  and  pass 
Out  of  the  world  like  the  blades  of  grass ; 
And  many  a  foot  on  me  has  trod, 
That's  gone  from  sight,  and  under  the  sod. 
I  am  a  Pebble !  but  who  art  thou, 
Rattling  along  from  the  restless  bough  ?" 

The  Acorn  was  shock'd  at  this  rude  salute, 
And  lay  for  a  moment  abash'd  and  mute ; 
She  never  before  had  been  so  near 
This  gravelly  ball,  the  mundane  sphere ; 
And  she  felt  for  a  time  at  a  loss  to  know 
How  to  answer  a  thing  so  coarse  and  low. 
But  to  give  reproof  of  a  nobler  sort 
Than  the  angry  look,  or  the  keen  retort, 
At  length  she  said  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"  Since  it  has  happen'd  that  I  am  thrown 
From  the  lighter  element  where  I  grew, 
Down  to  another  so  hard  and  new, 

(88) 


THE  PEBBLE  AND  THE  ACORN.         89 

And  beside  a  personage  so  august, 
Abased,  I  will  cover  my  head  with  dust, 
And  quickly  retire  from  the  sight  of  one 
Whom  time,  nor  season,  nor  storm,  nor  sun, 
Nor  the  gentle  dew,  nor  the  grinding  heel 
Has  ever  subdued,  or  made  to  feel !" 
And  soon  in  the  earth  she  sunk  away, 
From  the  comfortless  spot  where  the  Pebble  lay. 

But  it  was  not  long  ere  the  soil  was  broke 
By  the  peering  head  of  an  infant  oak ! 
And,  as  it  arose,  and  its  branches  spread, 
The  Pebble  look'd  up,  and,  wondering,  said, 
"  A  modest  Acorn, — never  to  tell 
What  was  enclosed  in  its  simple  shell ! 
That  the  pride  of  the  forest  was  folded  up 
In  the  narrow  space  of  its  little  cup ! 
And  meekly  to  sink  in  the  darksome  earth, 
Which  proves  that  nothing  could  hide  her  worth ! 
And,  O  !  how  many  will  tread  on  me, 
To  come  and  admire  the  beautiful  tree, 
Whose  head  is  towering  towards  the  sky, 
Above  such  a  worthless  thing  as  I ! 
Useless  and  vain,  a  cumberer  here, 
I  have  been  idling  from  year  to  year. 
But  never,  from  this,  shall  a  vaunting  word 
From  the  humbled  Pebble  again  be  heard, 
Till  something  without  me  or  within, 
Shall  show  the  purpose  for  which  I've  been !" 
The  Pebble  its  vow  could  not  forget, 
And  it  lies  there  wrapp'd  in  silence  yet ! 

8* 


TO    SPRING. 

BY  ALBERT  PIKE. 

OH  thou  delicious  Spring ! 
Nursed  in  the  lap  of  thin  and  subtle  showers, 

Which  fall  from  clouds  that  lift  their  snowy  wing 
From  odorous  beds  of  light-infolded  flowers, 

And  from  enmass'd  bowers, 
That  over  grassy  walks  their  greenness  fling, 
Come,  gentle  Spring ! 

Thou  lover  of  young  wind, 
That  cometh  from  the  invisible  upper  sea 

Beneath  the  sky,  which  clouds,  its  white  foam,  bind, 
And,  settling  in  the  trees  deliciously, 

Makes  young  leaves  dance  with  glee, 
Even  in  the  teeth  of  that  old  sober  hind, 
Winter  unkind, 

Come  to  us  ;  for  thou  art 
Like  the  fine  love  of  children,  gentle  Spring ! 

Touching  the  sacred  feeling  of  the  heart, 
Or  like  a  virgin's  pleasant  welcoming ; 

And  thou  dost  ever  bring 
A  tide  of  gentle  but  resistless  art 
Upon  the  heart. 

Red  Autumn  from  the  south 
Contends  with  thee :  alas  !  what  may  he  show  ? 

What  are  his  purple-stain'd  and  rosy  mouth 
And  browned  cheeks,  to  thy  soft  feet  of  snow, 

And  timid,  pleasant  glow, 

Giving  earth-piercing  flowers  their  primal  growth, 
And  greenest  youth  ? 

•     (90) 


TO    SPRING.  91 

Gay  Summer  conquers  thee ; 
And  yet  he  has  no  beauty  such  as  thine : 
What  is  his  ever-streaming,  fiery  sea, 
To  the  pure  glory  that  with  thee  doth  shine  ? 

Thou  season  most  divine, 
What  may  his  dull  and  lifeless  minstrelsy 
Compare  with  thee  ? 

Come,  sit  upon  the  hills, 
And  bid  the  waking  streams  leap  down  their  side, 

And  green  the  vales  with  their  slight-sounding  rills ; 
And  when  the  stars  upon  the  sky  shall  glide, 

And  crescent  Dian  ride, 
I  too  will  breathe  of  thy  delicious  thrills, 
On  grassy  hills. 

Alas  !  bright  Spring,  not  long 
Shall  I  enjoy  thy  pleasant  influence ; 

For  thou  shalt  die  the  summer  heat  among, 
Sublimed  to  vapour  in  his  fire  intense, 

And,  gone  for  ever  hence, 
Exist  no  more  :  no  more  to  earth  belong, 
Except  in  song. 

So  I  who  sing  shall  die : 
Worn  unto  death,  perchance,  by  care  and  sorrow  ,* 

And,  fainting  thus  with  an  unconscious  sigh, 
Bid  unto  this  poor  body  a  good  morrow, 

Which  now  sometimes  I  borrow, 
And  breathe  of  joyance  keener  and  more  high, 
Ceasing  to  sigh ! 


SCENE  AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 

BY  .ANDREWS    NOETON. 

THE  rain  is  o'er.     How  dense  and  bright 

Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie ! 
Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 

Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky ! 

In  grateful  silence,  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing  ;  fresh  and  fair, 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  soflen'd  sunbeams  pour  around 

A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale ; 
The  wind  flows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 

Is  breathing  odours  on  the  gale. 

Mid  yon  rich  clouds'  voluptuous  pile, 

Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 
Might  rest,  to  gaze  below  a  while, 

Then  turn  to  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth ;  from  off  the  scene 

Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung ; 
And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 

Now  gaze  on  Nature — yet  the  same — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fann'd, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came, 

Fresh  in  her  youth,  from  God's  own  hand. 

(92) 


THE    INDIAN    SUMMER.  93 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice, 

And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence ;  lowborn  Care, 

And  all  the  train  of  mean  Desire, 
Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air, 

And  mid  this  living  light  expire. 


THE    INDIAN    SUMMER. 

BY    JOHN    G.    C.    BRA1NARD. 

WHAT  is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves? 
Ilave  they  that  "  green  and  yellow  melancholy" 
That  the  sweet  poet  spake  of] — Had  he  seen 
Our  variegated  woods,  when  first  the  frost 
Turns  into  beauty  all  October's  charms — 
When  the  dread  fever  quits  us — when  the  storms 
Of  the  wild  equinox,  with  all  its  wet, 
Has  left  the  land,  as  the  first  deluge  left  it, 
With  a  bright  bow  of  many  colours  hung 
Upon  the  forest  tops — he  had  not  sigh'd. 

The  moon  stays  longest  for  the  hunter  now : 
The  trees  cast  down  their  fruitage,  and  the  blithe 
And  busy  squirrel  hoards  his  winter  store : 
While  man  enjoys  the  breeze  that  sweeps  along 
The  bright,  blue  sky  above  him,  and  that  bends 
Magnificently  all  the  forest's  pride, 
Or  whispers  through  the  evergreens,  and  asks, 
"  What  is  there  saddening  in  the  autumn  leaves  ?" 


NEW    ENGLAND. 

BY    J.    6.    WHITTIER. 

LAND  of  the  forest  and  the  rock — 

Of  dark  blue  lake  and  mighty  river — 
Of  mountains  rear'd  aloft  to  mock 
The  storm's  career,  the  lightning's  shock — 

My  own  green  land  for  ever  ! 
Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave — 
The  freeman's  home — the  martyr's  grave — 
The  nursery  of  giant  men, 
Whose  deeds  have  link'd  with  every  glen, 
And  every  hill  and  every  stream, 
The  romance  of  some  warrior-dream ! 
O  !  never  may  a  son  of  thine, 
Where'er  his  wandering  steps  incline, 
Forget  the  sky  which  bent  above 
His  childhood  like  a  dream  of  love ; 
The  stream  beneath  the  green  hill  flowing, 
The  broad-arm'd  trees  above  it  growing, 
The  clear  breeze  through  the  foliage  blowing ; 
Or  hear  unmoved  the  taunt  of  scorn 
Breathed  o'er  the  brave  New  England  born  ; 
Or  mark  the  stranger's  jaguar-hand 

Disturb  the  ashes  of  thy  dead, 
The  buried  glory  of  a  land 

Whose  soil  with  noble  blood  is  red, 
And  sanctified  in  every  part, — 

Nor  feel  resentment  like  a  brand, 
Unsheathing  from  his  fiery  heart ! 

(94) 


NEW    ENGLAND.  95 

0 !  greener  hills  may  catch  the  sun 

Beneath  the  glorious  heaven  of  France ; 
And  streams,  rejoicing  as  they  run 

Like  life  beneath  the  day-beam's  glance, 
May  wander  where  the  orange-bough 
With  golden  fruit  is  bending  low ; 
And  there  may  bend  a  brighter  sky 
O'er  green  and  classic  Italy — 
And  pillar'd  fane  and  ancient  grave 

Bear  record  of  another  time, 
And  over  shaft  and  architrave 

The  green  luxuriant  ivy  climb ; 
And  far  toward  the  rising  sun 

The  palm  may  shake  its  leaves  on  high, 
Where  flowers  are  opening,  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  upon  the  twilight  sky  ; 
And  breezes  soft  as  sighs  of  love 

Above  the  broad  banana  stray, 
And  through  the  Brahmin's  sacred  grove 

A  thousand  bright- hued  pinions  play  ! 
Yet  unto  thee,  New  England,  still 

Thy  wandering  sons  shall  stretch  their  arms, 
And  thy  rude  chart  of  rock  and  hill 

Seem  dearer  than  the  land  of  palms  ; 
Thy  massy  oak  and  mountain-pine 

More  welcome  than  the  banyan's  shade ; 
And  every  free,  blue  stream  of  thine 

Seem  richer  than  the  golden  bed 
Of  oriental  waves,  which  glow 
And  sparkle  with  the  wealth  below  ! 


I 
THE  RETURN  OF  YOUTH. 

BY    WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 

MY  friend,  thou  sorrowest  for  thy  golden  prime, 

For  thy  fair  youthful  years  too  swift  of  flight ; 
Thou  musest  with  wet  eyes  upon  the  time 

Of  cheerful  hopes  that  filPd  the  world  with  light, 
Years  when  thy  heart  was  bold,  thy  hand  was  strong, 

And  prompt  thy  tongue  the  generous  thought  to  speak, 
And  willing  faith  was  thine,  and  scorn  of  wrong 

Summon'd  the  sudden  crimson  to  thy  cheek. 

Thou  lookest  forward  on  the  coming  days, 

Shuddering  to  feel  their  shadow  o'er  thee  creep ; 
A  path,  thick-set  with  changes  and  decays, 

Slopes  downward  to  the  place  of  common  sleep ; 
And  they  who  walk'd  with  thee  in  life's  first  stage, 

Leave  one  by  one  thy  side,  and,  waiting  near, 
Thou  seest  the  sad  companions  of  thy  age — 

Dull  love  of  rest,  and  weariness  and  fear. 

Yet  grieve  thou  not,  nor  think  thy  youth  is  gone, 

Nor  deem  that  glorious  season  e'er  could  die. 
Thy  pleasant  youth,  a  little  while  withdrawn, 

Waits  on  the  horizon  of  a  brighter  sky : 
Waits,  like  the  morn,  that  folds  her  wing  and  hides, 

Till  the  slow  stars  bring  back  her  dawning  hour ; 
Waits,  like  the  vanish'd  spring,  that  slumbering  bides 

Her  own  sweet  time  to  waken  bud  and  flower. 

There  shall  he  welcome  thee,  when  thou  shalt  stand 
On  his  bright  morning  hills,  with  smiles  more  sweet 

Than  when  at  first  he  took  thee  by  the  hand, 
Through  the  fair  earth  to  lead  thy  tender  feet. 

(96) 


THE    LABOURER.  97 

He  shall  bring  back,  but  brighter,  broader  still, 

Life's  early  glory  to  thine  eyes  again, 
Shall  clothe  thy  spirit  with  new  strength,  and  fill 

Thy  leaping  heart  with  warmer  love  than  then. 

Hast  thou  not  glimpses,  in  the  twilight  here, 

Of  mountains  where  immortal  morn  prevails  ? 
Comes  there  not,  through  the  silence,  to  thine  ear 

A  gentle  murmur  of  the  morning  gales, 
That  sweep  the  ambrosial  groves  of  that  bright  shore, 

And  thence  the  fragrance  of  its  blossoms  bear, 
And  voices  of  the  loved  ones  gone  before, 

More  musical  in  that  celestial  air  1 


THE   LABOURER. 

BY    WILLIAM    D.    GALLAGHER. 

STAND  up — erect !    Thou  hast  the  form 

And  likeness  of  thy  GOD — who  more  ? 

A  soul  as  dauntless  mid  the  storm 

Of  daily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 

And  pure  as  breast  e'er  wore. 

\V  hat  then  ? — Thou  art  as  true  a  man 

As  moves  the  human  mass  among  ; 
As  much  a  part  of  the  great  plan 
That  with  Creation's  dawn  began, 
As  any  of  the  throng. 

Who  is  thine  enemy  ? — the  high 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 

The  great,  who  coldly  pass  thee  by, 

With  proud  step  and  averted  eye  ? 
Nay  !  nurse  not  such  belief. 

9 


98  THE    LABOURER. 

If  true  unto  thyself  thou  wast, 

What  were  the  proud  one's  scorn  to  thee? 
A  feather,  which  thou  mightest  cast 
Aside,  as  idly  as  the  blast 

The  light  leaf  from  the  tree. 

No : — uncurb'd  passions,  low  desires, 

Absence  of  noble  self-respect, 
Death,  in  the  breast's  consuming  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  which  aspires 
For  ever,  till  thus  check'd ; 

These  are  thine  enemies — thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot : 
Thy  labour  and  thy  life  accursed. 
O,  stand  erect !  and  from  them  burst ! 

And  longer  suffer  not ! 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy  ! 

The  great ! — what  better  they  than  thou  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free  1 
Has  GOD  with  equal  favours  thee 

Neglected  to  endow  ? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not— 'tis  but  dust ! 

Nor  place — uncertain  as  the  wind  ! 
But  that  thou  hast,  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both — a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  ban, 

True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  GOD, 

Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 

Look  up,  then :  that  thy  little  span 
Of  life  may  be  well  trod ! 


THE   DESERTED    WIFE. 

BY    JAMES    G.    PEECIVAL. 

HE  comes  not — I  have  watch'd  the  moon  go  down, 
But  yet  he  comes  not.     Once  it  was  not  so. 
He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow, 
The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 
Yet  he  will  come,  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep ; 
And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep, 
To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 
O !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep, 
Over  those  sleeping  eyes,  that  smile,  which  cheers 
My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow,  fix'd  and  deep. 
I  had  a  husband  once,  who  loved  me — now 
He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow, 
And  feeds  his  passion  on  a  wanton's  lip, 
As  bees,  from  laurel  flowers,  a  poison  sip ; 
But  yet  I  cannot  hate — O  !  there  were  hours, 
When  I  could  hang  for  ever  on  his  eye, 
And  time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 
Strew'd,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowers. 
I  loved  him  then — he  loved  me  too.     My  heart 
Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle  if  he  smile ; 
The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart; 
And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 
Venom'd  and  barb'd,  and  waste  upon  the  vile 
Caresses,  which  his  babe  and  mine  should  share ; 
Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  calmly  bear 
His  madness,  and  should  sickness  come  and  lay 
Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 
I  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay, 
Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say, 
JIow  injured,  and  how  faithful  I  had  been ! 

(99) 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE  AT  LAUREL  HILL. 

BY    WILLIS    GAYLORD    CLARK. 

HERE  the  lamented  dead  in  dust  shall  lie, 

Life's  lingering  languors  o'er,  its  labours  done ; 

Where  waving  boughs,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Admit  the  farewell  radiance  of  the  sun. 

Here  the  long  concourse  from  the  murmuring  town, 
With  funeral  pace  and  slow,  shall  enter  in ; 

To  lay  the  loved  in  tranquil  silence  down, 
No  more  to  suffer,  and  no  more  to  sin. 

And  in  this  hallow'd  spot,  where  Nature  showers 
Her  summer  smiles  from  fair  and  stainless  skies, 

Affection's  hand  may  strew  her  dewy  flowers, 
Whose  fragrant  incense  from  the  grave  shall  rise. 

And  here  the  impressive  stone,  engraved  with  words 
Which  grief  sententious  gives  to  marble  pale, 

Shall  teach  the  heart ;  while  waters,  leaves,  and  birds 
Make  cheerful  music  in  the  passing  gale. 

Say,  wherefore  should  we  weep,  and  wherefore  pour 

On  scented  airs  the  unavailing  sigh — 
While  sun-bright  waves  are  quivering  to  the  shore, 

And  landscapes  blooming— that  the  loved  must  die  ? 

There  is  an  emblem  in  this  peaceful  scene : 
Soon  rainbow  colours  on  the  woods  will  fall ; 

And  autumn  gusts  bereave  the  hills  of  green, 
As  sinks  the  year  to  meet  its  cloudy  pall. 

(100) 


THE     WINGED     WORSHIPPERS.  101 

Then,  cold  and  pale,  in  distant  vistas  round, 

Disrobed  and  tuneless,  all  the  woods  will  stand ; 

While  the  chain'd  streams  are  silent  as  the  ground, 
As  Death  had  numb'd  them  with  his  icy  hand. 

Yet  when  the  warm,  soft  winds  shall  rise  in  spring, 
Like  struggling  daybeams  o'er  a  blasted  heath, 

The  bird  return'd  shall  poise  her  golden  wing, 
And  liberal  Nature  break  the  spell  of  Death. 

So,  when  the  tomb's  dull  silence  finds  an  end, 
The  blessed  dead  to  endless  youth  shall  rise ; 

And  hear  th'  archangel's  thrilling  summons  blend 
Its  tone  with  anthems  from  the  upper  skies. 

There  shall  the  good  of  earth  be  found  at  last, 

Where  dazzling  streams  and  vernal  fields  expand ; 

Where  Love  her  crown  attains — her  trials  past — 
And,  fill'd  with  rapture,  hails  the  "  better  land !" 


THE   WINGED   WORSHIPPERS. 

BY    CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

Two  swallows,  having  flown  into  church  during  divine  service, 
were  apostrophized  in  the  following  stanzas. 

GAY,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend?  9 

9* 


THE     WINGED     WORSHIPPERS. 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep : 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Bless'd  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  rear'd  with  hands. 

Or  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd, 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

I M  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  indeed, 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 


THE   AMERICAN   FLAG. 

BY    JOSEPH    R.    DRAKE. 

WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurl'd  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white, 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  call'd  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 
The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 

When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 

(103) 


104  THE     AMERICAN     FLAG. 

Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimm'd  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreathes  the  battle -shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valour  given ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us ! 


THE   BATTLE-FIELD. 

BY    WILLTAM    C.    BRYANT. 

ONCE  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encounter'd  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gush'd  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gush'd  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouth'd  gun  and  staggering  wain  ; 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry  5 

O  !  be  it  never  heard  again. 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ;  but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 

A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year. 

A  wild  and  many-weapon'd  throng 

Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot. 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not, 


106  THE     DEPARTED. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  hissing,  stinging  bolt  of  scorn ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

•       Truth  crush'd  to  earth,  shall  rise  again : 

The  eternal  years  of  GOD  are  hers  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain, 
And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  help'd  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  peal'd 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave, 


THE    DEPARTED. 

.  BY    PARK    BENJAMIN.         \ 

THE  departed  !  the  departed  ! 

They  visit  us  in  dreams, 
And  they  glide  above  our  memories 

Like  shadows  over  streams  ; 
But  where  the  cheerful  lights  of  home 

In  constant  lustre  burn, 
The  departed,  the  departed 

Can  never  more  return  ! 

The  good,  the  brave,  the  beautiful, 
How  dreamless  is  their  sleep, 

Where  rolls  the  dirge-like  music 
Of  the  ever-tossing  deep ! 


THE    DEPARTED.  107 

Or  where  the  hurrying  night-winds 

Pale  winter's  robes  have  spread 
Above  their  narrow  palaces, 

In  the  cities  of  the  dead ! 

I  look  around  and  feel  the  awe 

Of  one  who  walks  alone 
Among  the  wrecks  of  former  days, 

In  mournful  ruin  strown  ; 
I  start  to  hear  the  stirring  sounds 

Among  the  cypress  trees, 
For  the  voice  of  the  departed 

Is  borne  upon  the  breeze. 

That  solemn  voice  !  it  mingles  with 

Each  free  and  careless  strain  ; 
I  scarce  can  think  earth's  minstrelsy 

Will  cheer  my  heart  again. 
The  melody  of  summer  waves, 

The  thrilling  notes  of  birds, 
Can  never  be  so  dear  to  me 

As  their  remember'd  words. 

I  sometimes  dream  their  pleasant  smiles 

Still  on  me  sweetly  fall, 
Their  tones  of  love  I  faintly  hear 

My  name  in  sadness  call. 
I  know  that  they  are  happy, 

With  their  angel-plumage  on, 
But  my  heart  is  very  desolate 

To  think  that  they  are  gone. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  OF  AUTUMN. 

BY   JAMES    G.    PERCIVAL. 

Now  the  growing  year  is  over, 
And  the  shepherd's  tinkling  bell 

Faintly  from  its  winter  cover 
Rings  a  low  farewell : — 

Now  the  birds  of  Autumn  shiver, 

Where  the  wither'd  beech-leaves  quiver, 

O'er  the  dark  and  lazy  river, 
In  the  rocky  dell. 

Now  the  mist  is  on  the  mountains, 

Reddening  in  the  rising  sun  ; 
Now  the  flowers  around  the  fountains 

Perish  one  by  one :  — 
Not  a  spire  of  grass  is  growing, 
But  the  leaves  that  late  were  glowing, 
Now  its  blighted  green  are  strowing 
With  a  mantle  dun. 

Now  the  torrent  brook  is  stealing 
Faintly  down  the  furrow'd  glade — 

Not  as  when  in  winter  pealing, 
Such  a  din  is  made, 

That  the  sound  of  cataracts  falling 

Gave  no  echo  so  appalling, 

As  its  hoarse  and  heavy  brawling 
In  the  pine's  black  shade. 

Darkly  blue  the  mist  is  hovering 

Round  the  cHfted  rock's  bare  height — 

All  the  bordering  mountains  covering 
With  a  dim,  uncertain  light :  — 


(108) 


INCOMPREHENSIBILITY     OF    GOD.  109 

Now,  a  fresher  wind  prevailing, 
Wide  its  heavy  burden  sailing, 
Deepens  as  the  day  is  failing, 
Fast  the  gloom  of  night. 

Slow  the  blood-stain'd  moon  is  riding 

Through  the  still  and  hazy  air, 
Like  a  sheeted  spectre  gliding 

In  a  torch's  glare  :  — 
Few  the  hours,  her  light  is  given — 
Mingling  clouds  of  tempest  driven 
O'er  the  mourning  face  of  heaven, 

All  is  blackness  there. 


INCOMPREHENSIBILITY   OF   GOD. 

BY    ELIZABETH    TOWNSEND. 

WHERE  art  thou  ?     Thou  !  Source  and  Support  of  all 
That  is  or  seen  or  felt ;  Thyself  unseen, 
Unfelt,  unknown — alas  !  unknowable  ! 
I  look  abroad  among  thy  works :  the  sky, 
Vast,  distant,  glorious  with  its  world  of  suns, 
Life-giving  earth,  and  ever-moving  main, 
And  speaking  winds,  and  ask  if  these  are  Thee ! 
The  stars  that  twinkle  on,  the  eternal  hills, 
The  restless  tide's  outgoing  and  return, 
The  omnipresent  and  deep-breathing  air — 
Though  hail'd  as  gods  of  old,  and  only  less — 
Are  not  the  Power  I  seek ;  are  thine,  not  Thee ! 
I  ask  Thee  from  the  past ;  if  in  the  years, 
Since  first  Intelligence  could  search  its  source, 
Or  in  some  former,  unremember'd  being 
(If  such,  perchance,  were  mine),  did  they  behold  Thee  ? 
10 


110  INCOMPREHENSIBILITY    OP    GOI>. 

And  next  interrogate  Futurity — 

So  fondly  tenanted  with  better  things 

Than  e'er  experience  own'd — but  both  are  mute ; 

And  past  and  future,  vocal  on  all  else, 

So  full  of  memories  and  phantasies, 

Are  deaf  and  speechless  here  ?     Fatigued,  I  turn 

From  all  vain  parley  with  the  elements ; 

And  close  mine  eyes,  and  bid  the  thought  turn  inward. 

From  each  material  thing  its  anxious  guest, 

If,  in  the  stillness  of  the  waiting  soul, 

He  may  vouchsafe  himself,  Spirit  to  spirit ! 

Oh  Thou,  at  once  most  dreaded  and  desired, 

Pavilion'd  still  in  darkness,  wilt  thou  hide  thee  ? 

What  though  the  rash  request  be  fraught  with  fate, 

Nor  human  eye  may  look  on  thine  and  live  ? 

Welcome  the  penalty  !  let  that  come  now 

Which  soon  or  late  must  come.     For  light  like  this 

Who  would  not  dare  to  die  ? 

Peace,  my  proud  aim, 

And  hush  the  wish  that  knows  not  what  it  asks. 
Await  his  will,  who  hath  appointed  this 
With  every  other  trial.     Be  that  will 
Done  now  as  ever.     For  thy  curious  search, 
And  unprepared  solicitude  to  gaze 
On  Him — the  Unreveal'd— learn  hence,  instead, 
To  temper  highest  hope  with  humbleness. 
Pass  thy  novitiate  in  these  outer  courts, 
Till  rent  the  veil,  no  longer  separating 
The  holiest  of  all ;  as  erst  disclosing 
A  brighter  dispensation  ;  whose  results 
Ineffable,  interminable,  tend 
E'en  to  the  perfecting  thyself,  thy  kind, 
Till  meet  for  that  sublime  beatitude, 
By  the  firm  promise  of  a  voice  from  heaven 
Pledged  to  the  pure  in  heart ! 


"GO  FORTH   INTO   THE   FIELDS." 

BY    WILLIAM    J.    PABODIE. 

Go  forth  into  the  fields, 
Ye  denizens  of  the  pent  city's  mart ! 
Go  forth  and  know  the  gladness  nature  yields 

To  the  care-wearied  heart. 

Leave  ye  the  feverish  strife, 
The  jostling,  eager,  self-devoted  throng ; — 
Ten  thousand  voices,  waked  anew  to  life, 

Call  you  with  sweetest  song. 

Hark  !  from  each  fresh-clad  bough, 
Or  blissful  soaring  in  the  golden  air, 
Bright  birds  with  joyous  music  bid  you  now 

To  spring's  loved  haunts  repair. 

The  silvery  gleaming  rills 
Lure  with  soft  murmurs  from  the  grassy  lea, 
Or  gayly  dancing  down  the  sunny  hills, 

Call  loudly  in  their  glee  ! 

And  the  young,  wanton  breeze, 
With  breath  all  odorous  from  her  blossomy  chase, 
In  voice  low  whispering  'mong  th'  embowering  trees, 

Woos  you  to  her  embrace. 

•  • ' 

Go — breathe  the  air  of  heaven, 
Where  violets  meekly  smile  upon  your  way  ; 
Or  on  some  pine-crown'd  summit,  tempest-riven, 

Your  wandering  footsteps  stay, 

(in) 


112  "GO     FORTH     INTO    THE 

Seek  ye  the  solemn  wood, 
Whose  giant  trunks  a  verdant  roof  uprear, 
And  listen,  while  the  roar  of  some  far  flood 

Thrills  the  young  leaves  with  fear ! 

Stand  by  the  tranquil  lake, 
Sleeping  mid  willowy  banks  of  emerald  dye, 
Save  when  the  wild  bird's  wing  its  surface  break, 

Checkering  the  mirror'd  sky— 

And  if  within  your  breast, 
Hallow'd  to  nature's  touch,  one  chord  remain ; 
If  aught  save  worldly  honours  find  you  blest, 

Or  hope  of  sordid  gain, — 

A  strange  delight  shall  thrill, 
A  quiet  joy  brood  o'er  you  like  a  dove ; 
Earth's  placid  beauty  shall  your  bosom  fill, 

Stirring  its  depths  with  love. 

O,  in  the  calm,  still  hours, 
The  holy  Sabbath-hours,  when  sleeps  the  air, 
And  heaven,  and  earth,  deck'd  with  her  beauteous  flowers, 

Lie  hush'd  in  breathless  prayer, — 

Pass  ye  the  proud  fane  by, 
The  vaulted  aisles,  by  flaunting  folly  trod, 
And,  'neath  the  temple  of  the  uplifted  sky, 

Go  forth  and  worship  GOD  ! 


STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  AUTUMN. 

BY    JOHN  G.  0.  BRAINARD. 

THE  dead  leaves  strew  the  forest  walk, 

And  wither'd  are  the  pale  wild  flowers ; 
The  frost  hangs  blackening  on  the  stalk, 

The  dew-drops  fall  in  frozen  showers. 

Gone  are  the  spring's  green  sprouting  bowers. 
Gone  summer's  rich  and  mantling  vines, 

And  autumn,  with  her  yellow  hours, 
On  hill  and  plain  no  longer  shines. 

I  learn'd  a  clear  and  wild-toned  note, 

That  rose  and  swell'd  from  yonder  tree — 
A  gay  bird,  with  too  sweet  a  throat, 

There  perch'd  and  raised  her  song  for  me. 

The  winter  comes,  and  where  is  she  1 
Away — where  summer  wings  will  rove, 

Where  buds  are  fresh,  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  the  notes  of  love. 

Too  mild  the  breath  of  southern  sky, 

Too  fresh  the  flower  that  blushes,  there, 
The  northern  breeze  that  rustles  by 

Finds  leaves  too  green,  and  buds  too  fair ; 

No  forest  tree  stands  stripp'd  and  bare, 
No  stream  beneath  the  ice  is  dead, 

No  mountain  top,  with  sleety  hair, 
Bends  o'er  the  snows  its  reverend  head. 

10  *  ("3) 


114  THE     GRAY     FOREST-EAGLE. 

Go  there,  with  all  the  birds,  and  seek 

A  happier  clime,  with  livelier  flight, 
Kiss,  with  the  sun,  the  evening's  cheek, 

And  leave  me  lonely  with  the  night. 

I'll  gaze  upon  the  cold  north  light. 
And  mark  where  all  its  glories  shone, — 

See — that  it  all  is  fair  and  bright, 
Feel— that  it  all  is  cold  and  gone. 


THE    GRAY    FOREST-EAGLE. 

BY    ALFRED    B.    STREET. 

WITH  storm-daring  pinion  and  sun-gazing  eye, 
The  gray  forest-eagle  is  king  of  the  sky  ! 
O,  little  he  loves  the  green  valley  of  flowers, 
Where  sunshine  and  song  cheer  the  bright  summer  hours, 
For  he  hears  in  those  haunts  only  music,  and  sees 
Only  rippling  of  waters  and  waving  of  trees ; 
There  the  red  robin  Warbles,  the  honey-bee  hums, 
The  timid  quail  whistles,  the  sly  partridge  drums ; 
And  if  those  proud  pinions,  perchance,  sweep  along, 
There's  a  shrouding  of  plumage,  a  hushing  of  song; 
The  sunlight  falls  stilly  on  leaf  and  on  moss, 
And  there 's  nought  but  his  shadow  black  gliding  across ; 
But  the  dark,  gloomy  gorge,  where  down  plunges  the  foam 
Of  the  fierce,  rock-lash'd  torrent,  he  claims  as  his  home : 
There  he  blends  his  keen  shriek  with  the  roar  of  the  flood, 
And  the  many-voiced  sounds  of  the  blast-smitten  wood ;  . 
From  the  crag-grasping  fir-top,  where  morn  hangs  its  wreath, 
He  views  the  mad  waters  white  writhing  beneath : 


THE     GRAY     FO  3  ES  T  -EAGLE  .  115 

On  a  limb  of  that  moss-bearded  hemlock  far  down, 
With  bright  azure  mantle  and  gay-mottled  crown, 
The  kingfisher  watches,  where  o'er  him  his  foe, 
The  fierce  hawk  sails  circling,  each  moment  more  low : 
Now  poised  are  those  pinions,  and  pointed  that  beak, 
His  dread  swoop  is  ready,  when  hark !  with  a  shriek, 
His  eye-balls  red-blazing,  high  bristling  his  crest, 
His  snake-like  neck  arch'd,  talons  drawn  to  his  breast, 
With  the  rush  of  the  wind-gust,  the  glancing  of  light, 
The  gray  forest-eagle  shoots  down  in  his  flight ; 
One  blow  of  those  talons,  one  plunge  of  that  neck, 
The  strong  hawk  hangs  lifeless,  a  blood-dripping  wreck ; 
And  as  dives  the  free  kingfisher,  dart-like  on  high 
With  his  prey  soars  the  eagle,  and  melts  in  the  sky. 

A  fitful  red  glaring,  a  low,  rumbling  jar, 
Proclaim  the  storm  demon  yet  raging  afar: 
The  black  cloud  strides  upward,  the  lightning  more  red, 
And  the  roll  of  the  thunder  more  deep  and  more  dread ; 
A  thick  pall  of  darkness  is  cast  o'er  the  air, 
And  on  bounds  the  blast  with  a  howl  from  its  lair : 
The  lightning  darts  zig-zag  and  fork'd  through  the  gloom, 
And  the  bolt  launches  o'er  with  crash,  rattle,  and  boom ; 
The  gray  forest-eagle,  where,  where  has  he  sped  ? 
Does  he  shrink  to  his  eyrie,  and  shiver  with  dread  ? 
Does  the  glare  blind  his  eye  ?    Has  the  terrible  blast 
On  the  wing  of  the  sky-king,  a  fear-fetter  cast  ? 
No,  no,  the  brave  eagle !  he  thinks  not  of  fright ; 
The  wrath  of  the  tempest  but  rouses  delight ; 
To  the  flash  of  the  lightning  his  eye  casts  a  gleam, 
To  the  shriek  of  the  wild  blast  he  echoes  his  scream, 
And  with  front  like  a  warrior  that  speeds  to  the  fray, 
And  a  clapping  of  pinions,  he's  up  and  away ! 
Away,  O,  away,  soars  the  fearless  and  free ! 
What  recks  he  the  sky's  strife  1 — its  monarch  is  he ! 


110  THE    GRA*     FOREST-EAGLE. 

The  lightning  darts  round  him,  undaunted  his  sight ; 
The  blast  sweeps  against  him,  unwaver'd  his  flight ; 
High  upward,  still  upward,  he  wheels,  till  his  form 
Is  lost  in  the  black,  scowling  gloom  of  the  storm. 

The  tempest  sweeps  o'er  with  its  terrible  train, 
And  the  splendour  of  sunshine  is  glowing  again ; 
Again  smiles  the  soft,  tender  blue  of  the  sky, 
Waked  bird-voices  warble,  fann'd  leaf- voices  sigh ; 
On  the  green  grass  dance  shadows,  streams  sparkle  and  run, 
The  breeze  bears  the  odour  its  flower-kiss  has  won, 
And  full  on  the  form  of  the  demon  in  flight 
The  rainbow's  magnificence  gladdens  the  sight ! 
The  gray  forest-eagle !  O,  where  is  he  now, 
While  the  sky  wears  the  smile  of  its  GOD  on  its  brow  ? 
There's  a  dark,  floating  spot  by  yon  cloud's  pearly  wreath, 
With  the  speed  of  the  arrow  'tis  shooting  beneath ! 
Down,  nearer  and  nearer  it  draws  to  the  gaze, 
Now  over  the  rainbow,  now  blent  with  its  blaze, 
To  a  shape  it  expands,  still  it  plunges  through  air, 
A  proud  crest,  a  fierce  eye,  a  broad  wing  are  there ; 
'Tis  the  eagle — the  gray  forest-eagle — once  more 
He  sweeps  to  his  eyrie :  his  journey  is  o'er  ! 

Time  whirls  round  his  circle,  his  years  roll  away, 
But  the  gray  forest-eagle  minds  little  his  sway  ; 
The  child  spurns  its  buds  for  youth's  thorn-hidden  bloom, 
Seeks  manhood's  bright  phantoms,  finds  age  and  a  tomb ; 
But  the  eagle's  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbow'd, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud  ! 
The  green  tiny  pine-shrub  points  up  from  the  moss, 
The  wren's  foot  would  cover  it,  tripping  across ; 
The  beech-nut  down  dropping  would  crush  it  beneath, 
But  'tis  warm'd  with  heaven's  sunshine,  and  fann'd  by  its 
breath ; 


THE    ORAY     FOREST-EAGLE.  117 

The  seasons  fly  past  it,  its  head  is  on  high, 

Its  thick  branches  challenge  each  mood  of  the  sky  j 

On  its  rough  bark  the  moss  a  green  mantle  creates, 

And  the  deer  from  his  antlers  the  velvet-down  grates  ; 

Time  withers  its  roots,  it  lifts  sadly  in  air 

A  trunk  dry  and  wasted,  a  top  jagg'd  and  bare, 

Till  it  rocks  in  the  soft  breeze,  and  crashes  to  earth, 

Its  blown  fragments  strewing  the  place  of  its  birth. 

The  eagle  has  seen  it  up-struggling  to  sight, 

He  has  seen  it  defying  the  storm  in  its  might, 

Then  prostrate,  soil -blended,  with  plants  sprouting  o'er, 

But  the  gray-forest  eagle  is  still  as  of  yore. 

His  flaming  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbow'd, 

Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud ! 

He  has  seen  from  his  eyrie  the  forest  below 

In  bud  and  in  leaf,  robed  with  crimson  and  snow. 

The  thickets,  deep  wolf-lairs,  the  high  crag  his  throne, 

And  the  shriek  of  the  panther  has  answer'd  his  own. 

He  has  seen  the  wild  red  man  the  lord  of  the  shades, 

And  the  smoke  of  his  wigwams  curl  thick  in  the  glades ; 

He  has  seen  the  proud  forest  melt  breath-like  away, 

And  the  breast  of  the  earth  lying  bare  to  the  day ; 

He  sees  the  green  meadow-grass  hiding  the  lair, 

And  his  crag-throne  spread  naked  to  sun  and  to  air ; 

And  his  shriek  is  now  answer'd,  while  sweeping  along, 

By  the  low  of  the  herd  and  the  husbandman's  song ; 

He  has  seen  the  wild  red-man  off-swept  by  his  foes, 

And  he   sees  dome  and   roof  where  those  smokes  once 

arose ; 

But  his  flaming  eye  dims  not,  his  wing  is  unbow'd, 
Still  drinks  he  the  sunshine,  still  scales  he  the  cloud ! 
An  emblem  of  Freedom,  stern,  haughty,  and  high, 
Is  the  gray  forest-eagle,  that  king  of  the  sky  ! 


118  THE     GRAY     FOREST-EAGLE. 

It  scorns  the  bright  scenes,  the  gay  places  of  earth- 
By  the  mountain  and  torrent  it  springs  into  birth ; 
There  rock'd  by  the  wild  wind,  baptized  in  the  foam, 
It  is  guarded  and  cherish'd,  and  there  is  its  home ! 
When  its  shadow  steals  black  o'er  the  empires  of  kings, 
Deep  terror,  deep  heart-shaking  terror  it  brings  ,* 
Where  wicked  Oppression  is  arm'd  for  the  weak, 
Then  rustles  its  pinions,  then  echoes  its  shriek ; 
Its  eye  flames  with  vengeance,  it  sweeps  on  its  way, 
And  its  talons  are  bathed  in  the  blood  of  its  prey. 
O,  that  eagle  of  Freedom !  when  cloud  upon  cloud 
Swathed  the  sky  of  my  own  native  land  with  a  shroud, 
When  lightnings  gleam'd  fiercely,  and  thunderbolts  rung, 
How  proud  to  the  tempest  those  pinions  were  flung ! 
Though  the  wild  blast  of  battle  swept  fierce  through  the  air 
With  darkness  and  dread,  still  the  eagle  was  there  ; 
Unquailing,  still  speeding,  his  swift  flight  was  on, 
Till  the  rainbow  of  Peace  crown'd  the  victory  won. 
O,  that  eagle  of  Freedom  !  age  dims  not  his  eye, 
He  has  seen  Earth's  mortality  spring,  bloom,  and  die ! 
He  has  seen  the  strong  nations  rise,  flourish,  and  fall, 
He  mocks  at  Time's  changes,  he  triumphs  o'er  all : 
He  has  seen  our  own  land  with  wild  forests  o'erspread, 
He  sees  it  with  sunshine  and  joy  on  its  head  ; 
And  his  presence  will  bless  this,  his  own,  chosen  clime, 
Till  the  Archangel's  fiat  is  set  upon  time. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

BY    R.    C.    SANDS. 

GOOD-NIGHT  to  all  the  world !  there 's  none, 
Beneath  the  "  over-going"  sun, 
To  whom  I  feel,  or  hate,  or  spite, 
And  so  to  all  a  fair  good-night. 

Would  I  could  say  good-night  to  pain, 
Good-night  to  conscience  and  her  train, 
To  cheerless  poverty,  and  shame 
That  I  am  yet  unknown  to  fame ! 

Would  I  could  say  good-night  to  dreams 
That  haunt  me  with  delusive  gleams, 
That  through  the  sable  future's  veil 
Like  meteors  glimmer,  but  to  fail. 

Would  I  could  say  a  long  good-night 
To  halting  between  wrong  and  right, 
And,  like  a  giant  with  new  force, 
Awake  prepared  to  run  my  course ! 

But  time  o'er  good  and  ill  sweeps  on, 
And  when  few  years  have  come  and  gone, 
The  past  will  be  to  me  as  nought, 
Whether  remember'd  or  forgot. 

Yet  let  me  hope  one  faithful  friend 
O'er  my  last  couch  in  tqars  shall  bend  ; 
And,  though  no  day  for  me  was  bright, 
Shall  bid  me  then  a  long  good-night. 


LAST    SETTING    OF    THE    SUN. 

BY    JAMES    A.    HILLHOUSB. 

BY  this  the  sun  his  westering  car  drove  low ; 
Round  his  broad  wheels  full  many  a  lucid  cloud 
Floated,  like  happy  isles  in  seas  of  gold : 
Along  the  horizon  castled  shapes  were  piled, 
Turrets  and  towers,  whose  fronts  embattled  gleam'd 
With  yellow  light :  smit  by  the  slanting  ray, 
A  ruddy  beam  the  canopy  reflected ; 
With  deeper  light  the  ruby  blushed ;  and  thick 
Upon  the  Seraphs'  wings  the  glowing  spots 
Seem'd  drops  of  fire.     Uncoiling  from  its  staff, 
With  fainter  wave,  the  gorgeous  ensign  hung, 
Or,  swelling  with  the  swelling  breeze,  by  fits 
Cast  off,  upon  the  dewy  air,  huge  flakes 
Of  golden  lustre.     Over  all  the  hill, 
The  heavenly  legions,  the  assembled  world, 
Evening  her  crimson  tint  for  ever  drew. 

But  while  at  gaze,  in  solemn  silence,  men 
And  angels  stood,  and  many  a  quaking  heart 
With  expectation  throbb'd  ;  about  the  throne 
And  glittering  hill-top  slowly  wreath'd  the  clouds, 
Erewhile  like  curtains  for  adornment  hung, 
Involving  Shiloh  and  the  Seraphim 
Beneath  a  snowy  tent.     The  bands  around, 
Eyeing  the  gonfalon  that  through  the  smoke 
Tower'd  into  air,  resembled  hosts  who  watch 
The  king's  pavilion  whefe,  ere  battle  hour, 
A  council  sits.     What  their  consult  might  be, 
Those  seven  dread  Spirits  and  their  Lord,  I  mused, 
I  marvell'd.     Was  it  grace  and  peace  ?  or  death  ? 

(120) 


LAST    SETTING    OF    THE    SUN.  121 

Was  it  of  man  ?     Did  pity  for  the  Lost 
His  gentle  nature  wring,  who  knew,  who  felt 
How  frail  is  this  poor  tenement  of  clay  7 
Arose  there  from  the  misty  tabernacle 
A  cry  like  that  upon  Gethsemane  1 
What  pass'd  in  Jesus'  bosom  none  may  know, 
But  close  the  cloudy  dome  invested  him  ; 
And,  weary  with  conjecture,  round  I  gazed 
Where  in  the  purple  west,  no  more  to  dawn, 
Faded  the  glories  of  the  dying  day. 
Mild-twinkling  through  a  crimson-skirted  cloud 
The  solitary  star  of  evening  shone. 
While  gazing  wistful  on  that  peerless  light 
Thereafter  to  be  seen  no  more  (as  oft 
In  dreams  strange  images  will  mix),  sad  thoughts 
Pass'd  o'er  my  soul.     Sorrowing  I  cried,  "  Farewell, 
Pale,  beauteous  planet,  that  displayest  so  soft, 
Amid  yon  glowing  streak,  thy  transient  beam, 
A  long,  a  last  farewell !     Seasons  have  changed, 
Ages  and  empires  roll'd,  like  smoke,  away, 
But  thou,  unalter'd,  beam'st  as  silver  fair 
As  on  thy  birthnight !     Bright  and  watchful  eyes, 
From  palaces  and  bowers,  have  hail'd  thy  gem 
With  secret  transport !     Natal  star  of  love, 
And  souls  that  love  the  shadowy  hour  of  fancy, 
How  much  I  owe  thee,  how  I  bless  thy  ray ! 
How  oft  thy  rising  o'er  the  hamlet  green, 
Signal  of  rest,  and  social  converse  sweet, 
Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree,  has  cheer'd 
The  peasant's  heart,  and  drawn  his  benison ! 
Pride  of  the  West !  beneath  thy  placid  light 
The  tender  tale  shall  never  more  be  told, 
Man's  soul  shall  never  wake  to  joy  again : 
Thou  setst  for  ever — lovely  orb,  farewell !" 
11 


TRAVELER'S  FATE* 

BY    CHARLES    SPRAGUE. 

UNDRAW  yon  curtain,  look  within  that  room, 
Where  all  is  splendour,  yet  where  all  is  gloom : 
Why  weeps  that  mother  ?  why,  in  pensive  mood, 
Group  noiseless  round,  that  little,  lovely  brood  1 
The  battledore  is  still,  lain  by  each  book, 
And  the  harp  slumbers  in  its  'custom'd  nook. 
Who  hath  done  this  ?  what  cold,  unpitying  foe, 
Hath  made  his  house  the  dwelling-place  of  woe? 
'T  is  he,  the  husband,  father,  lost  in  care, 
O'er  that  sweet  fellow  in  his  cradle  there : 
The  gallant  bark  that  rides  by  yonder  strand, 
Bears  him  to-morrow  from  his  native  land. 
Why  turns  he,  half  unwilling,  from  his  home, 
To  tempt  the  ocean  and  the  earth  to  roam  ? 
Wealth  he  can  boast,  a  miser's  sigh  would  hush, 
And  health  is  laughing  in  that  ruddy  blush ; 
Friends  spring  to  greet  him,  and  he  has  no  foe — 
So  honour'd  and  so  bless'd,  what  bids  him  go  1 
His  eye  must  see,  his  foot  each  spot  must  tread, 
Where  sleeps  the  dust  of  earth's  recorded  dead ; 
Where  rise  the  monuments  of  ancient  time, 
Pillar  and  pyramid  in  age  sublime : 
The  pagan's  temple  and  the  churchman's  tower, 
War's  bloodiest  plain,  and  Wisdom's  greenest  bower ; 
All  that  his  wonder  woke  in  schoolboy  themes, 
All  that  his  fancy  fired  in  youthful  dreams : 
Where  Socrates  once  taught  he  thirsts  to  stray, 
Where  Homer  pour'd  his  everlasting  lay ; 
From  Virgil's  tomb  he  longs  to  pluck  one  flower, 
By  Avon's  stream  to  live  one  moonlight  hour ; 

(122) 


THE  TRAVELER'S  FATE, 

To  pause  where  England  "  garners  up"  her  great, 
And  drop  a  patriot's  tear  to  Milton's  fate ; 
Fame's  living  masters,  too,  he  must  behold, 
Whose  deeds  shall  blazon  with  the  best  of  old : 
Nations  compare,  their  laws  and  customs  scan, 
And  read,  wherever  spread,  the  book  of  Man ; 
For  these  he  goes,  self-banish'd  from  his  hearth, 
And  wrings  the  hearts  of  all  he  loves  on  earth. 

Yet  say,  shall  not  new  joy  those  hearts  inspire, 
When  grouping  round  the  future  winter  fire, 
To  hear  the  wonders  of  the  world  they  burn, 
And  lose  his  absence  in  his  glad  return  1 
Return  ?  alas  !  he  shall  return  no  more, 
To  bless  his  own  sweet  home,  his  own  proud  shore. 
Look  once  again :  cold  in  his  cabin  now, 
Death's  finger-mark  is  on  his  pallid  brow ; 
No  wife  stood  by,  her  patient  watch  to  keep, 
To  smile  on  him,  then  turn  away  to  weep ; 
Kind  woman's  place  rough  mariners  supplied, 
And  shared  the  wanderer's  blessing  when  he  died. 
Wrapp'd  in  the  raiment  that  it  long  must  wear, 
His  body  to  the  deck  they  slowly  bear ; 
The  setting  sun  flings  round  his  farewell  rays, 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  not  a  ripple  plays  ; 
How  eloquent,  how  awful  in  its  power, 
The  silent  lecture  of  death's  sabbath-hour ! 
One  voice  that  silence  breaks — the  prayer  is  said, 
And  the  last  rite  man  pays  to  man  is  paid ; 
The  plashing  water  marks  his  resting-place, 
And  folds  him  round  in  one  long,  cold  embrace ; 
Bright  bubbles  for  a  moment  sparkle  o'er, 
Then  break,  to  be,  like  him,  beheld  no  more ; 
Down,  countless  fathoms  down,  he  sinks  to  sleep, 
With  all  the  nameless  shapes  that  haunt  the  deep. 


TO   THE   WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

BY    ELIZABETH    F.    ELLET. 

BIRD  of  the  lone  and  joyless  night, 
Whence  is  thy  sad  and  solemn  lay  ? 

Attendant  on  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Why  shun  the  garish  blaze  of  day  ? 

When  darkness  fills  the  dewy  air, 
Nor  sounds  the  song  of  happier  bird, 

Alone,  amid  the  silence  there, 

Thy  wild  and  plaintive  note  is  heard. 

Thyself  unseen,  thy  pensive  moan 
Pour'd  in  no  living  comrade's  ear, 

The  forest's  shaded  depths  alone 
Thy  mournful  melody  can  hear. 

Beside  what  still  and  secret  spring, 
In  what  dark  wood  the  livelong  day, 

Sett'st  thou  with  dusk  and  folded  wing, 
To  while  the  hours  of  light  away  ? 

Sad  minstrel !  thou  hast  learn'd,  like  me, 
That  life's  deceitful  gleam  is  vain ; 

And  well  the  lesson  profits  thee, 
Who  will  not  trust  its  charm  again. 

Thou,  unbeguiled,  thy  plaint  dost  trill 
To  listening  night,  when  mirth  is  o'er : 

I,  heedless  of  the  warning,  still 
Believe,  to  be  deceived  once  more. 

(134) 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD. 

BY    ALBERT    PIKE. 

THOU  glorious  mocker  of  the  world  !     I  hear 
Thy  many  voices  ringing  through  the  glooms 
Of  these  green  solitudes — and  all  the  clear, 
Bright  joyance  of  their  song  enthralls  the  ear 
And  floods  the  "heart.     Over  the  sphered  tombs 
Of  vanish'd  nations  rolls  thy  music  tide. 
No  light  from  history's  starlike  page  illumes 
The  memory  of  those  nations — they  have  died. 
None  cares  for  them  but  thou — and  thou  mayst  sing, 
Perhaps,  o'er  me — as  now  thy  song  doth  ring 
Over  their  bones  by  whom  thou  once  wast  deified. 

Thou  scorner  of  all  cities !     Thou  dost  leave 
The  world's  turmoil  and  never-ceasing  din, 
Where  one  from  other's  no  existence  weaves, 
Where  the  old  sighs,  the  young  turns  gray  and  grieves, 
Where  misery  gnaws  the  maiden's  heart  within : 
And  thou  dost  flee  into  the  broad  green  woods, 
And  with  thy  soul  of  music  thou  dost  win 
Their  heart  to  harmony — no  jar  intrudes 
Upon  thy  sounding  melody.     Oh,  where, 
Amid  the  sweet  musicians  of  the  air, 
Is  one  so  dear  as  thee  to  these  old  solitudes  ? 

Ha !  what  a  burst  was  that !  the  ^Eolian  strain 
Goes  floating  through  the  tangled  passages 
Of  the  lone  woods — and  now  it  comes  again-r- 
A  multitudinous  melody — like  a  rain 
Of  glossy  music  under  echoing  trees, 

11  *  (125) 


126  TO    THE    MOCKING    BIRD. 

Over  a  ringing  lake ;  it  wraps  the  soul 
With  a  bright  harmony  of  happiness — 
Even  as  a  gem  is  wrapt,  when  round  it  roll 
Their  waves  of  brilliant  flame — till  we  become, 
Even  with  the  excess  of  our  deep  pleasure,  dumb, 
And  pant  like  some  swift  runner  clinging  to  the  goal. 

I  cannot  love  the  man  who  doth  not  love 
(Even  as  men  love  light,)  the  song  of  birds : 
For  the  first  visions  that  my  boy-heart  wove, 
To  fill  its  sleep  with,  were,  that  I  did  rove 
Amid  the  woods — what  time  the  snowy  herds 
Of  morning  cloud  fled  from  the  rising  sun 
Into  the  depths  of  heaven's  heart ;  as  words 
That  from  the  poet's  tongue  do  fall  upon 
And  vanish  in  the  human  heart ;  and  then 
I  revel'd  in  those  songs,  and  sorrow'd,  when 
With  noon-heat  overwrought,  the  music's  burst  was  done. 

I  would,  sweet  bird,  that  I  might  live  with  thee, 
Amid  the  eloquent  grandeur  of  the  shades, 
Alone  with  nature — but  it  may  not  be ; 
I  have  to  struggle  with  the  tumbling  sea 
Of  human  life,  until  existence  fades 
Into  death's  darkness.     Thou  wilt  sing  and  soar 
Through  the  thick  woods  and  shadow-checker'd  glades, 
While  nought  of  sorrow  casts  a  dimness  o'er 
The  brilliance  of  thy  heart — but  I  must  wear, 
As  now,  my  garmenting  of  pain  and  care — 
As  penitents  of  old  their  galling  sackcloth  wore. 

Yet  why  complain  ? — What  though  fond  hopes  deferr'd 
Have  overshadow'd  Youth's  green  paths  with  gloom ! 
Still,  joy's  rich  music  is  not  all  unheard, — 
There  is  a  voice  sweeter  than  thine,  sweet  bird ! 


MY    CHILD.  127 

To  welcome  me,  within  my  humble  home; — 
There  is  an  eye  with  love's  devotion  bright, 
The  darkness  of  existence  to  illume  1 
Then  why  complain? — When  death  shall  cast  his  blight 
Over  the  spirit,  then  my  bones  shall  rest 
Beneath  these  trees — and  from  thy  swelling  breast, 
O'er  them  thy  song  shall  pour  like  a  rich  flood  of  light. 


MY   CHILD, 

BY    JOHN    PIERPONT. 

I  CANNOT  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair ; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 

With  tears  I  turn  to  him. 
The  vision  vanishes- — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  walk  my  parlour  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  doorj 
I  hear  a  footfall  on  the  chamber  stair ; 

I'm  stepping  toward  the  hall 

To  give  the  boy  a  call ; 
And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I  thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A  satchel'd  lad  I  meet, 
With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colour'd  hair ; 

And,  as  he's  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 
Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there ! 


129  MY    CHILD. 

I  know  his  face  is  hid 

Under  the  coffin  lid  ; 
Closed  are  his  eyes ;  cold  is  his  forehead ; 

My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O'er  it  in  prayer  I  knelt ; 
Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not  there  ! 

I  cannot  make  him  dead ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 
So  long  watch'd  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 

Seek  it  inquiringly, 
Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not  there  \ 

When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 

Of  day,  from  sleep  I  wake, 
With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 

My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy, 
Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not  there  ? 

When  at  the  day's  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 
I  'm  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer, 

Whate'er  I  may  be  saying, 

I  am,  in  spirit,  praying 
For  our  boy's  spirit,  though — he  is  not  there ! 

Not  there  ! — Where,  then,  is  he? 

The  form  I  used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 

The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 

Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 
Is  but  his  wardrobe  lock'd ; — he  is  not  there  ( 


LAKE    SUPERIOR.  129 

He  lives  ! — In  all  the  past 

He  lives  ;  nor,  to  the  last, 
Of  seeing  him  again  will  I  despair ; 

In  dreams  I  see  him  now; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 
I  see  it  written,  "  Thou  shalt  see  me  there  /" 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 

FATHER,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit  land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 
'T  will  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is  there  ! 


LAKE    SUPERIOR, 

0  r 

BY  SAMUEL  G.  GOODRICH. 

"  FATHER  OF  LAKES  !"  thy  waters  bend 
Beyond  the  eagle's  utmost  view, 

When,  throned  in  heaven,  he  sees  thee  send 
Back  to  the  sky  its  world  of  blue. 

Boundless  and  deep,  the  forests  weave 
Their  twilight  shade  thy  borders  o'er, 

And  threatening  cliffs,  like  giants,  heave 
Their  rugged  forms  along  thy  shore. 

Pale  Silence,  mid  thy  hollow  caves, 
With  listening  ear,  in  sadness  broods  j 

Or  startled  Echo,  o'er  thy  waves, 

Sends  the  hoarse  wolf-notes  of  thy  woods,, 


130  LAKE    SUPERIOR. 

Nor  can  the  light  canoes,  that  glide 
Across  thy  breast  like  things  of  air, 

Chase  from  thy  lone  and  level  tide 
The  spell  of  stillness  reigning  there. 

Yet  round  this  waste  of  wood  and  wave, 
Unheard,  unseen,  a  spirit  lives, 

That,  breathing  o'er  each  rock  and  cave, 
To  all  a  wild,  strange  aspect  gives. 

The  thunder-riven  oak,  that  flings 
Its  grisly  arms  athwart  the  sky, 

A  sudden,  startling  image  brings 
To  the  lone  traveler's  kindled  eye. 

The  gnarl'd  and  braided  boughs,  that  show 
Their  dim  forms  in  the  forest  shade, 

Like  wrestling  serpents  seen,  and  throw 
Fantastic  horrors  through  the  glade. 

The  very  echoes  round  this  shore 

Have  caught  a  strange  and  gibbering  tone ; 
•  '     For  they  have  told  the  war-whoop  o'er, 
Till  the  wild  chorus  is  their  own. 

Wave  of  the  wilderness,  adieu  ! 

Adieu,  ye  rocks,  ye  wilds  and  woods ! 
Roll  on,  thou  element  of  blue, 

And  fill  these  awful  solitudes ! 

Thou  hast  no  tale  to  tell  of  man — 

GOD  is  thy  theme.     Ye  sounding  caves — 

Whisper  of  Him,  whose  mighty  plan 
Deems  as  a  bubble  all  your  waves  { 


THE  NOTES  OF  THE  BIRDS. 
BY  i.  M'LELLAN,  JR. 

WELL  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gayly  in  Spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  ;he  Summer-time, 
And  in  red  Autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art  pain'd  with  the  world's  noisy  stir, 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weigh'd  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life  ; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far-distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike, 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest  birds. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir !    ,The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Utiereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps,  half  hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dogwood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree, 
And,  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  Spring,  the  robin  comes, 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  wither'd  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 

(131) 


132  THE    NOTES    OF    THE     BIRDS. 

Upon  the  red-stemm'd  hazel's  slender  twig, 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  Autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest  field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves,  then  peals  abroad 
The  blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer,  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watchplace  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  cornfield  edge. 

Lone  whip-poor-will, 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Ofltimes,  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out, 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still : 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 
To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 
No  eye,  save  thine,  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 
I  hear  thee  oft,  at  midnight,  when  the  thrush 
And  the  green,  roving  linnet  are  at  rest, 
And  the  blithe,  twittering  swallows  have  long  ceased 
Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current  mines 
The  forest's  blacken'd  roots,  and  whose  green  marge 
Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 
The  lonely  heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath  silence  of  the  wilderness : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 
Or  brooding  gloomily  on  the  time-stain'd  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 


TO    A    CITY    PIGEON.  133 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep  and  heavy  boom, 
Gray  watcher  of  the  waters !     Thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake ;  and  all  the  winged  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye !     Thou  lookest  down, 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide ; 
And,  poising  thy  gray  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Ofttimes  I  see  thee,  through  the  curling  mist, 
Dart  like  a  spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now,  wouldst  thou,  O  man  !  delight  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  ?     Then  pass  forth, 
And  find  them  mid  those  many-colour'd  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  Beauty's  ruby  lip. 


TO   A   CITY   PIGEON. 

BY    N.    P.    WILLIS. 

STOOP  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove ! 
Thy  daily  visits  have  touch'd  my  love ! 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That  stirs  so  low  in  thy  mellow  throat, 

And  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 

12 


134  TO    A     CITY     PIGEON* 

Why  dost  thou  sit  on  the  heated  eaves, 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  freshen'd  leaves  ? 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  the  sultry  street, 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool  and  sweet  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear 
This  noise  of  people — this  sultry  air  ? 

Thou  alone  of  the  featherM  race 

Dost  look  unscared  on  the  human  face ; 

Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee, 

Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts  to  be ; 

And  "  the  gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and  love. 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird ! 
Thou  'rt  named  with  childhood's  earliest  word  ! 
Thou'rt  link'd  with  all  that  is  fresh  and  wild 
In  the  prison'd  thoughts  of  the  city  child, 

And  thy  glossy  wings 
Are  its  brightest  image  of  moving  things. 

It  is  no  light  chance.     Thou  art  set  apart, 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tamed  thy  heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and  fair 
That  else  were  seal'd  in  this  crowded  air ; 

I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come  then,  ever,  when  daylight  leaves 
The  page  I  read,  to  my  humble  eaves* 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow  spout, 
And  murmur  thy  low  sweet  music  out ! 

I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  Heaven,  sweet  bird,  in  thee ! 


HYMN   OF   NATURE. 

BY    W.    B.    O.    PEABODY. 

GOD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains ! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  commune  with  the  sky; 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summon'd  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dash'd  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calm'd  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee  ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  airy  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 

(135) 


136  HYMN     OF     NATURE. 

All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh, 
That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 

To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 
Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings ! 
Each  brilliant  star  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 

God  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  Nature's  self  to  dust  return ; 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay  ; 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn ; 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


THE    WINDS. 

BY  WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

YE  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 
Softly  ye  play'd  a  few  brief  hours  ago ; 

Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee";  ye  toss'd  the  hair 
O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow ; 

Ye  roll'd  the  round,  white  cloud  through  depths  of  blue; 

Ye  shook  from  faded  flowers  the  lingering  dew ; 

Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like  snow. 

How  are  ye  changed !  Ye  take  the  cataract's  sound, 
Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  in  its  might : 

The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground ; 
The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 

The  clouds  before  you  sweep  like  eagles  past ; 

The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 

Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 
Skyward,  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 

The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain, 

To  scape  your  wrath ;  ye  seize  and  dash  them  dead. 
Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain; 
The  harvest  field  becomes  a  river's  bed ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drown'd, 
And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest's  sound, 
Rise,  as  the  rushing  floods  close  over  head. 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 
A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale  and  pray ; 

Ye  fling  its  waters  round  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's  spray. 

12  *  (137) 


138  THE     WINDS. 

See !  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 
Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 
And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings, 
And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

Why  rage  ye  thus  ? — no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made  you  mad ;  no  tyrant,  strong  through  fear, 

Has  chain'd  your  pinions, t  till  ye  wrench'd  them  free, 
And  rush'd  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere : 

For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow ; 

Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go  ; 

Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of  snow, 
Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 

O,  ye  wild  winds  !  a  mightier  power  than  yours 

In  chains  upon  the  shores  of  Europe  lies ; 
The  sceptred  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures, 

Watch  his  mute  throes  with  terror  in  their  eyes : 
And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand, 
And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band, 
And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand, 
To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 

Yet,  O,  when  that  wrong'd  spirit  of  our  race, 

Shall  break,  as  soon  he  must,  his  long-worn  chains, 
And  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place, 

Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 
Let  him  not  rise,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air, 
To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare, 
To  fill  the  earth  with  woe,  and  blot  her  fair 

Unconscious  breast  with  blood  from  human  veins. 

But  may  be,  like  the  spring-time,  come  abroad, 
Who  crumbles  winter's  gyves  with  gentle  might, 

When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  GOD, 
Come  spouting  up  the  unseal'd  springs  to  light ; 
12* 


EXCELSIOR.  139 

Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  feet, 
The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnings  sweet, 
And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost  meet, 
Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient  night. 


EXCELSIOR. 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  pass'd 
A  youth,  who  bore,  mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner,  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad :  his  eye  beneath 
Flash'd  like  a  faulchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung, 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
Excelsior  ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Try  not  the  pass  !"  the  old  man  said  ; 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide !" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
Excelsior ! 


140  EXCELSIOR. 

"  O  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast !" 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 
But  still  he  answer'd  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  wither'd  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !" 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night  ,• 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Utter'd  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A  traveler,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star ! 
Excelsior ! 


THE  EXILE  AT   REST. 

BY    JOHN    FIERPONT. 

His  falchion  flash'd  along  the  Nile  ; 

His  hosts  he  led  through  Alpine  snows  ; 
O'er  Moscow's  towers,  that  shook  the  while, 

His  eagle  flag  unrolPd — and  froze. 

Here  sleeps  he  now  alone  :  not  one 

Of  all  the  kings  whose  crowns  he  gave, 

Nor  sire,  nor  brother,  wife,  nor  son, 
Hath  ever  seen  or  sought  his  grave. 

Here  sleeps  he  now  alone  :  the  star 
That  led  him  on  from  crown  to  crown 

Hath  sunk  ;  the  nations  from  afar 
Gazed  as  it  faded  and  went  down. 

He  sleeps  alone :  the  mountain  cloud 

That  night  hangs  round  him,  and  the  breath 

Of  morning  scatters,  is  the  shroud 
That  wraps  his  martial  form  in  death. 

High  is  his  couch  :  the  ocean  flood 
Far,  far  below  by  storms  is  curl'd, 

As  round  him  heaved,  while  high  he  stood, 
A  stormy  and  inconstant  world. 

Hark  !     Comes  there  from  the  Pyramids, 
And  from  Siberia's  wastes  of  snow, 

And  Europe's  fields,  a  voice  that  bids 

The  world  he  awed  to  mourn  him  ?     No : 

The  only,  the  perpetual  dirge 

That 's  heard  there  is  the  sea-bird's  cry, 
The  mournful  murmur  of  the  surge, 

The  cloud's  deep  voice,  the  wind's  low  sigh. 

(141) 


THE  DYING   RAVEN. 

BY    R.    H.    DANA. 

COME  to  these  lonely  woods  to  die  alone  ? 
It  seems  not  many  days  since  thou  wast  heard. 
From  out  the  mists  of  spring,  with  thy  shrill  note, 
Calling  upon  thy  mates — and  their  clear  answers. 
The  earth  was  brown,  then ;  and  the  infant  leaves 
Had  not  put  forth  to  warm  them  in  the  sun, 
Or  play  in  the  fresh  air  of  heaven.     Thy  voice, 
Shouting  in  triumph,  told  of  winter  gone, 
And  prophesying  life  to  the  seal'd  ground, 
Did  make  me  glad  with  thoughts  of  coming  beauties. 
And  now  they're  all  around  us ;  —  offspring  bright 
Of  earth — a  mother,  who,  with  constant  care, 
Doth  feed  and  clothe  them  all. — Now  o'er  her  fields, 
In  blessed  bands,  or  single,  they  are  gone, 
Or  by  her  brooks  they  stand,  and  sip  the  stream ; 
Or  peering  o'er  it — vanity  well  feign' d — 
In  quaint  approval  seem  to  glow  and  nod 
At  their  reflected  graces.     Morn  to  meet, 
They  in  fantastic  labours  pass  the  night, 
Catching  its  dews,  and  rounding  silvery  drops 
To  deck  their  bosoms.     There,  on  high,  bald  trees, 
From  varnish'd  cells  some  peep,  and  the  old  boughs 
Make  to  rejoice  and  dance  in  warmer  winds. 
Over  my  head  the  winds  and  they  make  music ; 
And,  grateful,  in  return  for  what  they  take, 
Bright  hues  and  odours  to  the  air  they  give. 

Thus  mutual  love  brings  mutual  delight — 
J3rings  beauty,  life ;  —  for  love  is  life  ;  —  hate,  death. 

(142) 


THE    DYING    RAVEN.  143 

Thou  Prophet  of  so  fair  a  revelation — 
Thou  who  abodest  with  us  the  winter  long, 
Enduring  cold  or  rain,  and  shaking  oft, 
'From  thy  dark  mantle,  falling  sleet  or  snow — 
Thou,  who  with  purpose  kind,  when  warmer  days 
Shone  on  the  earth,  mid  thaw  and  steam,  earnest  forth 
From  rocky  nook,  or  wood,  thy  priestly  cell, 
To  speak  of  comfort  unto  lonely  man — 
Didst  say  to  him — though  seemingly  alone 
Mid  wastes  and  snows,  and  silent,  lifeless  trees, 
Or  the  more  silent  ground — it  was  not  death, 
But  nature's  sleep  and  rest,  her  kind  repair;  — 
That  Thou,  albeit  unseen,  didst  bear  with  him 
The  winter's  night,  and,  patient  of  the  day, 
And  cheer'd  by  hope,  (instinct  divine  in  Thee,) 
Waitedst  return  of  summer. 

More  thou  saidst, 

Thou  Priest  of  Nature,  Priest  of  God,  to  man ! 
Thou  spokest  of  faith  (than  instinct  no  less  sure), 
Of  spirits  near  him  though  he  saw  them  not : 
Thou  badest  him  ope  his  intellectual  eye, 
And  see  his  solitude  all  populous : 
Thou  show'dst  him  Paradise,  and  deathless  flowers ; 
And  didst  him  pray  to  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  living  waters. 

Preacher  to  man's  spirit ! 
Emblem  of  Hope  !     Companion  !     Comforter ! 
Thou  faithful  one  !  is  this  thine  end  ?     'T  was  thou, 
When  summer  birds  were  gone,  and  no  form  seen 
In  the  void  air,  who  earnest,  living  and  strong, 
On  thy  broad,  balanced  pennons,  through  the  winds. 
And  of  thy  long  enduring,  this  the  close ! 
Thy  kingly  strength,  thou  conqueror  of  storms, 
Thus  low  brought  down. 


144  THE     DYi:\G     3JAVEX. 

The  year's  mild,  cheering  dawn 
Upon  thee  shone  a  momentary  light. 
The  gales  of  spring  upbore  thee  for  a  day, 
And  then  forsook  thee.     Thou  art  fallen  now ; 
And  liest  among  thy  hopes  and  promises — 
Beautiful  flowers,  and  freshly-springing  blades, 
Gasping  thy  life  out.     Here  for  thee  the  grass 
Tenderly  makes  a  bed ;  and  the  young  buds 
fa  silence  open  their  fair,  painted  folds — 
To  ease  thy  pain,  the  one — to  cheer  thee,  these. 
But  thou  art  restless :  and  thy  once  keen  eye 
Is  dull  and  sightless  now.     New  blooming  boughs, 
Needlessly  kind,  have  spread  a  tent  for  thee. 
Thy  mate  is  calling  to  the  white,  piled  clouds, 
And  asks  for  thee.     They  answer  give  no  back. 
As  I  look  up  to  their  bright,  angel  faces, 
Intelligent  and  capable  of  voice 
They  seem  to  me.     Their  silence  to  my  soul 
Comes  ominous.     The  same  to  thee,  doom'd  bird, 
Silence  or  sound.     For  thee  there  is  no  sound, 
No  silence. — Near  thee  stands  the  shadow,  Death  ;  — 
And  now  he  slowly  draws  his  sable  veil 
Over  thine  eyes ;  thy  senses  softly  lulls 
Into  unconscious  slumbers.     The  airy  call 
Thou 'It  hear  no  longer;  'neath  sun-lighted  clouds, 
With  beating  wing,  or  steady  poise  aslant, 
Wilt  sail  no  more.     Around  thy  trembling  claws 
Droop  thy  wings'  parting  feathers.     Spasms  of  death 
Are  on  thee. 

Laid  thus  low  by  age?     Or  is't 
All-grudging  man  has  brought  thee  to  this  end  ? 
Perhaps  the  slender  hair,  so  subtly  wound 
Around  the  grain  God  gives  thee  for  thy  food, 
Has  proved  thy  snare,  and  makes  thine  inward  pain. 


THE    DYING    RAVEN.  145 

I  needs  must  mourn  for  thee.     For  I — who  have 
No  fields,  nor  gather  into  garners — I 
Bear  thee  both  thanks  and  love,  not  fear  nor  hate. 

And  now,  farewell !     The  falling  leaves,  ere  long, 
Will  give  thee  decent  covering.     Till  then, 
Thine  own  black  plumage,  that  will  now  no  more 
Glance  to  the  sun,  nor  flash  upon  my  eyes, 
Like  armour  of  steel'd  knight  of  Palestine, 
Must  be  thy  pall.     Nor  will  it  moult  so  soon 
As  sorrowing  thoughts  on  those  borne  from  him,  fade 
In  living  man. 

Who  scoffs  these  sympathies, 
Makes  mock  of  the  divinity  within  ; 
Nor  feels  he  gently  breathing  through  his  soul, 
The  universal  spirit. — Hear  it  cry, 
"  How  does  thy  pride  abase  thee,  man,  vain  man! 
How  deaden  thee  to  universal  love, 
And  joy  of  kindred  with  all  humble  things — 
God's  creatures  all !" 

And  surely  it  is  so. 

He  who  the  lily  clothes  in  simple  glory, 
He  who  doth  hear  the  ravens  cry  for  food, 
Hath  on  our  hearts,  with  hand  invisible, 
In  signs  mysterious,  written  what  alone 
Our  hearts  may  read. — Death  bring  thee  rest,  poor  bird. 

13 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

BY    WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come, 

The  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods, 

And  meadows  brown  and  sear. 
Heap'd  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove, 

The  wither'd  leaves  lie  dead  ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust, 

And  to  the  rabbit's  tread. 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown, 

And  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow, 

Through  all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers, 

That  lately  sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs, 

A  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves ; 

The  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds, 

With  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie, 

But  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth, 

The  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet, 

They  perish'd  long  ago, 
And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died, 

Amid  the  summer  glow ; 


(14G) 


THE    DEATH    OF    THE    FLOWERS.  147 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod, 

And  the  aster  in  the  wood, 
And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook 

In  autumn  beauty  stood, 
Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear,  cold  heaven, 

As  falls  the  plague  on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone, 

From  upland  glade  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm,  mild  day, 

As  still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee 

From  out  their  winter  home ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 

Though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light 

The  waters  of  the  rill? 
The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers 

Whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood 

And  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in 

Her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up 

And  faded  by  my  side  ; 
In  the  cold,  moist  earth  we  laid  her, 

When  the  forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely 

Should  have  a  life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one, 

Like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful, 

Should  perish  with  the  flowers. 


"PASS  ON,  RELENTLESS  WORLD." 

BY  GEORGE  LUNT. 

SWIFTER  and  swifter,  day  by  day, 

Down  Time's  unquiet  current  hurl'd, 
Thou  passest  on  thy  restless  way, 

Tumultuous  and  unstable  world ! 
Thou  passest  on !    Time  hath  not  seen 

Delay  upon  thy  hurried  path ; 
And  prayers  and  tears  alike  have  been 

In  vain  to  stay  thy  course  of  wrath ! 

Thou  passest  on,  and  with  thee  go 

The  loves  of  youth,  the  cares  of  age ; 
And  smiles  and  tears,  and  joy  and  woe, 

Are  on  thy  history's  troubled  page ! 
There,  every  day,  like  yesterday, 

Writes  hopes  that  end  in  mockery  ,* 
But  who  shall  tear  the  veil  away 

Before  the  abyss  of  things  to  be  ? 

Thou  passest  on,  and  at  thy  side, 

Even  as  a  shade,.  Oblivion  treads,  •  .J  ' 
And  o'er  the  dreams  of  human  pride 

His  misty  shroud  for  ever  spreads ; 
Where  all  thine  iron  hand  hath  traced 

Upon  that  gloomy  scroll  to-day, 
With  records  ages  since  effaced, — 

Like  them  shall  live,  like  them  decay, 

(148) 


"PASS     ON,    RELENTLESS    WORLD."  149 

Thou  passest  on,  with  thee  the  vain, 

Who  sport  upon  thy  flaunting  blaze, 
Pride,  framed  of  dust  and  folly's  train, 

Who  court  thy  love,  and  run  thy  ways : 
But  thou  and  I, — and  be  it  so, — 

Press  onward  to  eternity; 
Yet  not  together  let  us  go 

To  that  deep-voiced  but  shoreless  sea. 

Thou  hast  thy  friends, — I  would  have  mine  ; 

Thou  hast  thy  thoughts, — leave  me  my  own : 
I  kneel  not  at  thy  gilded  shrine, 

I  bow  not  at  thy  slavish  throne ; 
I  see  them  pass  without  a  sigh, — 

They  wake  no  swelling  raptures  now, 
The  fierce  delights  that  fire  thine  eye, 

The  triumphs  of  thy  haughty  brow. 

Pass  on,  relentless  world !    I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven ; 
Pass  on,  in  GOD'S  name,  only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  yet  hast  given — 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home, 

Affections  fix'd  above  thy  sway, 
Faith  set  upon  a  world  to  come, 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day. 

13* 


OLD    IRONSIDES.* 

BY    OLIVER    W.  HOLMES. 

Ay,  tear  her  tatter'd  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky  ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar ; 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more  I 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquish'd  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquer'd  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

O,  better  that  her  shatter'd  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 

*  Written  when  it  was  proposed  to  break  up  the  frigate  Constitu 
tion,  as  unfit  for  service. 

(150) 


THE  PLEASURE  BOAT. 

BY    E.    H.    DANA. 

COME,  hoist  the  sail,  the  fast  let  go ! 

They're  seated  side  by  side; 
Wave  chases  wave  in  pleasant  flow ; 

The  bay  is  fair  and  wide. 

The  ripples  lightly  tap  the  boat. 

Loose  ! — give  her  to  the  wind ! 
She  shoots  ahead :— They're  all  afloat : 

The  strand  is  far  behind. 

No  danger  reach  so  fair  a  crew  f 

Thou  goddess  of  the  foam, 
I'll  ever  pay  thee  worship  due, 

If  thou  wilt  bring  them  home. 

Fair  ladies,  fairer  than  the  spray 

The  prow  is  dashing  wide, 
Soft  breezes  take  you  on  your  way, 

Soft  flow  the  blessed  tide ! 

O,  might  I  like  those  breezes  be, 

And  touch  that  arching  brow, 
I  'd  toil  for  ever  on  the  sea 

Where  ye  are  floating  now. 

The  boat  goes  tilting  on  the  waves ; 

The  waves  go  tilting  by ; 
There  dips  the  duck  ;  —  her  back  she  laves  ; 

O'er  head  the  sea-gulls  fly. 

Now,  like  the  gulls  that  dart  for  prey, 

The  little  vessel  stoops  ; 
Now  rising,  shoots  along  her  way, 

Like  them,  in  easy  swoops. 


(151) 


152  THE     PLEASURE     BOAT. 

The  sun-light  falling  on  her  sheet, 

It  glitters  like  the  drift 
Sparkling  in  scorn  of  summer's  heat, 

High  up  some  mountain  rift. 

The  winds  are  fresh;  she's  driving  fast 

Upon  the  bending  tide, 
The  crinkling  sail,  and  crinkling  mast, 

Go  with  her  side  by  side. 

Why  dies  the  breeze  away  so  soon  ? 

Why  hangs  the  pennant  down  ? 
The  sea  is  glass ;  the  sun  at  noon. 

— Nay,  lady,  do  not  frown  ; 

For,  see,  the  winged  fisher's  plume 

Is  painted  on  the  sea : 
Below,  a  cheek  of  lovely  bloom, 

— Whose  eyes  look  up  at  thee  ? 

She  smiles ;  thou  needs  must  smile  on  her. 

And,  see,  beside  her  face 
A  rich,  white  cloud  that  doth  not  stir.-— 

What  beauty,  and  what  grace  ! 

And  pictured  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

And  peaked  rock,  and  hill, 
Change  the  smooth  sea  to  fairy  land.-*- 

How  lovely  and  how  still ! 

From  that  far  isle  the  thresher's  flail 

Strikes  close  upon  the  ear ; 
The  leaping  fish,  the  swinging  sail 

Of  yonder  sloop  sound  near. 


PENTUCKET. 

BY    JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast, 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  Heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-wall'd  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretch'd  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blacken'd  stumps  between  j 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravel'd  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm,  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  labourer  left  his  plough — 
The  milk-maid  carol'd  by  her  cow — 
From  cottage-door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  joy  or  tones  of  mirth. 

(153) 


154  PE]VTUCKET. 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay. — 
So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallow'd  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate. 

Hours  pass'd  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall,  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hush'd  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound — 
No  bark  of  fox — no  rabbit's  bound — 
No  stir  of  wings — nor  waters  flowing — 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hill-side  beat  ? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  fc — 
Charr'd  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  lifeless  limb? 
No — through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glow'd, 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  show'd, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress ! 

A  yell,  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear, 

Sweil'd  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear — 

Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 

On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock — 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot — and  then 

The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men — 


PENTUCKET.  155 

Sunk  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain — 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame ; 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
Over  dead  corse  and  weapons  bared. 

The  morning  sun  look'd  brightly  through 
The  river-willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  fili'd  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard, — nor  gun-shot  there : 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke ; 
And  on  the  green  sward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped, 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

E'en  now,  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearth-stone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare — 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  fear'd, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard — 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


ODE  TO   THE   MOON. 

BY    ROBERT    M.    BIRD. 
O  MELANCHOLY  Moon, 

Queen  of  the  midnight,  though  thou  palest  away 
Far  in  the  dusky  west,  to  vanish  soon 

Under  the  hills  that  catch  thy  waning  ray, 
Still  art  thou  beautiful  beyond  all  spheres, 
The  friend  of  grief,  and  confidant  of  tears. 

Mine  earliest  friend  wert  thou  ; 
My  boyhood's  passion  was  to  stretch  me  under 

The  locust  tree,  and,  through  the  checker'd  bough, 
Watch  thy  far  pathway  in  the  clouds,  and  wonder 
At  thy  strange  loveliness,  and  wish  to  be 
The  nearest  star  to  roam  the  heavens  with  thee. 

Youth  grew ;  but  as  it  came, 
And  sadness  with  it,  still,  with  joy,  I  stole 

To  gaze,  and  dream,  and  breathe  perchance  the  name 
That  was  the  early  music  of  my  soul, 
And  seem'd  upon  thy  pictured  disk  to  trace 
Remember'd  features  of  a  radiant  face. 

And  manhood,  though  it  bring 
A  winter  to  my  bosom,  cannot  turn 

Mine  eyes  from  thy  lone  loveliness ;  still  spring 
My  tears  to  meet  thee,  and  the  spirit  stern 
Falters,  in  secret,  with  the  ancient  thrill — 
The  boyish  yearning  to  be  with  thee  still. 

(156) 


ODE    TO    THE     MOON.  157 

Would  it  were  so ;  for  earth 
Grows  shadowy,  and  her  fairest  planets  fail ; 

And  her  sweet  chimes,  that  once  were  woke  to  mirth, 
Turn  to  a  moody  melody  of  wail, 
And  through  her  stony  throngs  I  go  alone, 
Even  with  the  heart  I  cannot  turn  to  stone. 

Would  it  were  so ;  for  still 
Thou  art  my  only  counsellor,  with  whom 

Mine  eyes  can  have  no  bitter  shame  to  fill, 
Nor  my  weak  lips  to  murmur  at  the  doom 
Of  solitude,  which  is  so  sad  and  sore, 
Weighing  like  lead  upon  my  bosom's  core. 

A  boyish  thought,  and  weak: — 
I  shall  look  up  to  thee  from  the  deep  sea, 

And  in  the  land  of  palms,  and  on  the  peak 
Of  her  wild  hills,  still  turn  my  eyes  to  thee ; 
And  then  perhaps  lie  down  in  solemn  rest, 
With  nought  but  thy  pale  beams  upon  my  breast 

Let  it  be  so  indeed ! 
Earth  hath  her  peace  beneath  the  trampled  stone ; 

And  let  me  perish  where  no  heart  shall  bleed, 
And  nought,  save  passing  winds,  shall  make  my  moan, 
No  tears,  save  night's,  to  wash  my  humble  shrine, 
And  watching  o'er  me,  no  pale  face  but  thine. 


14 


MORNING    HYMN. 

BY    C.    F.    HOFFMAN. 

"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  !"     The  Eternal  spoke, 

And  from  the  abyss  where  darkness  rode 
The  earliest  dawn  of  nature  broke, 

And  light  around  creation  flowed. 
The  glad  earth  smiled  to  see  the  day, 

The  first-born  day,  come  blushing  in ; 
The  young  day  smiled  to  shed  its  ray 

Upon  a  world  untouch'd  by  sin. 

"  Let  there  be  light !"  O'er  heaven  and  earthj 

The  GOD  who  first  the  day-beam  pour'd, 
Utter'd  again  his  fiat  forth, 

And  shed  the  gospel's  light  abroad. 
And,  like  the  dawn,  its  cheering  rays 

On  rich  and  poor1  were  meant  to  fall, 
Inspiring  their  Redeemer's  praise, 

In  lowly  cot  and  lordly  hall. 

Then  come,  when  in  the  orient  first 

Flushes  the  signal  light  for  prayer ; 
Come  with  the  earliest  beams  that  burst 

From  GOD'S  bright  throne  of  glory  there. 
Come  kneel  to  Him,  who  through  the  night 

Hath  watch'd  above  thy  sleeping  soul, 
To  Him  whose  mercies,  like  his  light, 

Are  shed  abroad  from  pole  to  pole. 

(158) 


DEATH  AND   LIFE. 

BY    LUCY    HOOPER. 

NOT  unto  thee,  O  pale  and  radiant  Death ! 
Not  unto  thee,  though  every  hope  be  past, 
Though  Life's  first,  sweetest  stars  may  shine  no  more, 
Nor  earth  again  one  cherish'd  dream  restore, 
Or  from  the  bright  urn  of  the  future  cast 

Aught,  aught  of  joy  on  me. 

Yet  unto  thee,  O  monarch  robed  and  crown'd, 
And  beautiful  in  all  thy  sad  array, 
I  bring  no  incense,  though  the  heart  be  chill. 
And  to  the  eyes,  that  tears  alone  may  fill, 

Shines  not  as  once  the  wonted  light  of  day, 

Still  upon  another  shrine  my  vows 
Shall  all  be  duly  paid,  and  though  thy  voice 
Is  full  of  music  to  the  pining  heart, 
And  woos  one  to  that  pillow  of  calm  ,rest, 
Where  all  Life's  dull  and  restless  thoughts  .depart, 
Still,  not  to  thee,  O  Deaft ! 

I  pay  my  vows,  though  now  to  me  thy  brow 
Seems  crown'd  with  roses  of  the  summer  prime, 
And  to  the  aching  sense  thy  voice  would  be, 
O  Death  !  O  Death  !  of  softest  melody, 
And  gentle  ministries  alone  were  thine, 

Still  I  implore  thee  not. 

(159) 


160  DEATH    AND    LIFE. 

But  thou,  O  Life !  O  Life !  the  searching  test 

Of  the  weak  heart !  to  thee,  to  thee  I  bow : 

And  if  the  fire  upon  the  altar  shrine 

Descend,  and  scathe  each  glowing  hope  of  mine, 
Still  may  my  heart  as  now 
Turn  not  from  that  dread  test. 

But  let  me  pay  my  vows  to  thee,  O  Life  ! 
And  let  me  hope  that  from  that  glowing  fire 
There  yet  may  be  redeem 'd  a  gold  more  pure 
And  bright,  and  eagle  thoughts  to  mount  and  soar 

Their  flight  the  higher, 
Released  from  earthly  hope,  or  earthly  fear. 

This,  this,  O  Life  !  be  mine. 
Let  others  strive  thy  glowing  wreaths  to  bind — 
Let  others  seek  thy  false  and  dazzling  gleams, 
For  me  their  light  went  out  on  early  streams, 
And  faded  were  thy  roses  in  my  grasp, 

No  more,  no  more  to  bloom. 

Yet  as  the  stars,  the  holy  stars  of  night, 

Shine  out  when  all  is  dark, 

So  would  I,  cheer'd  by  hopes  more  purely  bright, 
Tread  still  the  thorny  path  whose  close  is  light, 

If,  but  at  last,  the  toss'd  and  weary  bark 
Gains  the  sure  haven  of  her  final  rest, 


j(i 

TO   A   WATERFOWL. 

BY    WILLIAM    C.    BRYANT. 

WHITHER,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way ! 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along, 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brirfk 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — - 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fann'd, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  s'Jiall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  shclter'd  nest, 

(161) 


162  THE    BROTHERS. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow'd  up  thy  form ;  yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy. certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THE    BROTHERS. 

BY    C.    SPRAGUE. 

WE  ARE  BUT  TWO — the  others  sleep 
Through  death's  untroubled  night ; 

We  are  but  two — O,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright. 

Heart  leaps  to  heart — the  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 

That  good  old  man — his  honest  blood 
Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  lock'd- 

Long  be  her  love  repaid ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rock'd, 

Round  the  same  hearth  we  play'd. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 
Each  little  joy  and  woe ;  — 

Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 
Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

WE  ARE  BUT  TWO— be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die  ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 


I    ^ 

THE   FATHER'S   DEATH. 

BY    H.    R.    JACKSON. 

As  die  the  embers  on  the  hearth, 

And  o'er  the  floor  the  shadows  fall, 
And  creeps  the  chirping  cricket  forth, 

And  ticks  the  death-watch  in  the  wall — 
I  see  a  form  in  yonder  chair, 

That  grows  beneath  the  waning  light — 
There  are  the  wan,  sad  features — there, 

The  pallid  brow,  and  locks  of  white ! 

My  FATHER  !  when  they  laid  thee  down, 

And  heap'd  the  clay  upon  thy  breast, 
And  left  thee  sleeping  all  alone 

Upon  thy  narrow  couch  of  rest— 
I  know  not  why,  I  could  not  weep — 

The  soothing  drops  refused  to  roll, 
And  oh !  that  grief  is  wild  and  deep, 

Which  settles  tearless  on  the  soul ! 

But  when  I  saw  thy  vacant  chair — 

Thine  idle  hat  upon  the  wall — 
Thy  book — the  pencil'd  passage  where 

Thine  eye  had  rested  last  of  all ; 
The  tree,  beneath  whose  friendly  shade, 

Thy  trembling  feet  had  wander'd  forth — 
The  very  prints  those  feet  had  made 

When  last  they  feebly  trod  the  earth ; 

And  thought,  while  countless  ages  fled, 
Thy  vacant  seat  would  vacant  stand — 

Unworn  tfyy  hat,  thy  book  unread, 
Effaced  thy  footsteps  from  the  sand — 

(103) 


r 


164  "ARE   WE   NOT   EXILES   HERE?" 

And  widow'd  in  this  cheerless  world, 
The  heart,  that  gave  its  love  to  thee — 

Torn,  Like  a  vine  whose  tend.rils  QurlM 
More  closely  round  the  falling  tree  !  — 

Oh  !  Father,  then.,  for  her  and  thee, 

Gush'd  madly  forth  the  scorching  tears, 
And  oft,  and  long,  and  bitterly, 

Those  tears  have  gush'd  in  later  years ; 
For  as  the  world  grows  cold  around, 

And  things  take  on  their  real  hue, 
I  'T  is  sad  to  learn  that  love  is  found 

Alone  above  the  stars  with  you ! 


«ARE   WE   NOT   EXILES    HERE?" 

BY    HENRY    T.    TUCKERMAN. 

ARE  we  not  exiles  here? 
Come  there  not  o'er  us  memories  of  a  clime 
More  genial  and  more  dear 
Than  this  of  time  ? 

When  deep  vague  wishes  press 
Upon  the  soul  and  prompt  it  to  aspire, 
A  mystic  loneliness, 
And  wild  desire ; 

When  our  long-baffled  zeal 
Turns  back  in  mockery  on  the  weary  heart, 
Till,  at  the  sad  appeal, 
Dismay'd  we  start ; 


"ARE   WE   NOT   EXILES   HERE?"  165 

And  like  the  Deluge  dove, 
Outflown  upon  the  world's  cold  sea  we  lie, 
And  all  our  dreams  of  love 
In  anguish  die  ? 

Nature  no  more  endears ; 
Her  blissful  strains  seem  only  breathed  afar, 
Nor  mount,  nor  flower  cheers, 
Nor  smiling  star. 

Familiar  things  grow  strange ; 
Fond  hopes  like  tendrils  shooting  to  the  air, 
Through  friendless  being  range, 
To  meet  despair. 

And,  nursed  by  secret  tears, 
Rich  but  frail  visions  in  the  heart  have  birth, 
And  this  fair  world  appears 
A  homeless  earth. 

Then  must  we  summon  back 
Blest  guides,  who  long  ago  -have  met  the  strife, 
And  left  a  radiant  track 
To  mark  their  life. 

Then  must  we  look  around 
On  heroes'  deeds — the  landmarks  of  the  brave, 
And  hear  their  cheers  resound 
From  off  the  wave. 

Then  must  we  turn  from  show, 
Pleasure  and  fame,  the  phantom  race  of  care, 
And  let  our  spirits  flow 
In  earnest  prayer. 


THE    MERRIMACK. 

BY    J.    G.    WHITTIER. 

STREAM  of  my  fathers !  sweetly  still 
The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill ; 
Pour'd  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 
Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 
I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 
The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 
And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 
Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 
There's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 
Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 
As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evening  watermark  ; 
No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 
Bow'd  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 
Centuries,  ago,  that  harbour-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smooth'd  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale ; 


(166) 


THE     MERRIMACK.  167 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As,  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 

Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merrimack  roll'd  down  his  flood ; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook — 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

From  that  pure  lake,  « The  Smile  of  Heaven,' 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain  side— 

With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood; 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unroll'd, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story  ; 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose  harems  look  on  Stamboul's  waters— 
Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreath'd  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Sooth'd  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 


168  THE    MERRIMACK. 

But  look ! — the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  distant  voice  of  twilight  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapour  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light  set 
Within  its  wave-wash'd  minaret, 
Half  quench'd,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Vale  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  roll'd  his  lordly  flood ; 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade ; 
Look'd  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly-winding  stream ; 
The  setting  sun,  his  axle  red 
Quench  darkly  in  Potomac's  bed ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna ; 
Yet,  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  look'd  back  to  thee ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore ; 
And  seen  amidst  the  curtain'd  gloom 
And  quiet  of  my  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  me  pass ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 


A     WINTER     MORNING.  169 

The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remember'd  groves  in  greenness  grew ; 
And,  while  the  gazer  lean'd  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  old  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  1 


A    WINTER    MORNING. 

BY    ANDREWS    NORTON. 

THE  keen,  clear  air — the  splendid  sight — 

We  waken  to  a  world  of  ice ; 
Where  all  things  are  enshrined  in  light, 

As  by  some  genie's  quaint  device. 

'T  is  winter's  jubilee — this  day 

His  stores  their  countless  treasures  yield ; 
See  how  the  diamond  glances  play, 

In  ceaseless  blaze,  from  tree  and  field. 

The  cold,  bare  spot  where  late  we  ranged, 
The  naked  woods  are  seen  no  more ; 

This  earth  to  fairy  land  is  changed, 
With  glittering  silver  sheeted  o'er. 

A  shower  of  gems  is  strew'd  around ; 

The  flowers  of  winter,  rich  and  rare ; 
Rubies  and  sapphires  deck  the  ground, 

The  topaz,  emerald,  all  are  there. 

The  morning  sun,  with  cloudless  rays, 

His  powerless  splendour  round  us  streams ; 

From  crusted  boughs,  and  twinkling  sprays, 
Fly  back  unloosed  the  rainbow  beams. 
15 


170  A    WINTER    MORNING. 

With  more  than  summer's  beauty  fair, 
The  trees  in  winter's  garb  are  shown ; 

What  a  rich  halo  melts  in  air, 

Around  their  crystal  branches  thrown ! 

And  yesterday — how  changed  the  view 

From  what  then  charm'd  us ;  when  the  sky 
Hung,  with  its  dim  and  watery  hue, 
*~       O'er  all  the  soft,  still  prospect  nigh. 

The  distant  groves,  array'd  in  white, 
Might  then  like  things  unreal  seem, 

Just  shown  a  while  in  silvery  light, 
The  fictions  of  a  poet's  dream ; 

Like  shadowy  groves  upon  that  shore 
O'er  which  Elysium's  twilight  lay, 

By  bards  and  sages  famed  of  yore, 

Ere  broke  on  earth  heaven's  brighter  day. 

O,  GOD  of  Nature !  with  what  might 
Of  beauty,  shower'd  on  all  below, 

Thy  guiding  power  would  lead  aright 
Earth's  wanderer  all  thy  love  to  know ! 


THE  BUGLE. 

BY   GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 

O  WILD,  enchanting  horn  ! 
Whose  music  up  the  deep  and  dewy  air 
Swells  to  the  clouds,  and  calls  on  Echo  there, 
Till  a  new  melody  is  born- 
Wake,  wake  again,  the  night 
Is  bending  from  her  throne  of  beauty  down, 
With  still  stars  burning  on  her  azure  crown, 
Intense  and  eloquently  bright. 

Night,  at  its  pulseless  noon ! 
When  the  far  voice  of  waters  mourns  in  song, 
And  some  tired  watch-dog,  lazily  and  long 

Barks  at  the  melancholy  moon. 

Hark  !  how  it  sweeps  away, 
Soaring  and  dying  on  the  silent  sky, 
As  if  some  sprite  of  sound  went  wandering  by, 

With  lone  halloo  and  roundelay ! 

Swell,  swell  in  glory  out ! 
Thy  tones  come  pouring  on  my  leaping  heart, 
And  my  stirr'd  spirit  hears  thee  with  a  start, 

As  boyhood's  old  remember'd  shout. 

O !  have  ye  heard  that  peal, 
From  sleeping  city's  moon-bathed  battlements, 
Or  from  the  guarded  field  and  warrior  tents, 

Like  some  near  breath  around  you  steal  ? 

(171) 


172  SEASONS    OF    PRAYER. 

Or  have  ye  in  the  roar 
Of  sea,  or  storm,  or  battle,  heard  it  rise, 
Shriller  than  eagle's  clamour,  to  the  skies, 

Where  wings  and  tempests  never  soar  ? 

Q0j  go — no  other  sound, 
No  music  that  of  air  or  earth  is  born, 
Can  match  the  mighty  music  of  that  horn, 

On  midnight's  fathomless  profound  ! 


SEASONS    OF    PRAYER. 

BY    HENRY    WARE,    JR. 

To  prayer,  to  prayer ; — for  the  morning  breaks, 
And  earth  in  her  Maker's  smile  awakes. 
His  light  is  on  all  below  and  above, 
The  light  of  gladness,  and  life,  and  love. 
O,  then,  on  the  breath  of  this  early  air, 
Send  up  the  incense  of  grateful  prayer. 

To  prayer ; — for  the  glorious  sun  is  gone, 
And  the  gathering  darkness  of  night  comes  on, 
Like  a  curtain  from  GOD'S  kind  hand  it  flows, 
To  shade  the  couch  where  his  children  repose. 
Then  kneel,  while  the  watching  stars  are  bright, 
And  give  your  last  thoughts  to  the  Guardian  of  night. 

To  prayer ; — for  the  day  that  GOD  has  bless'd 
Comes  tranquilly  on  with  its  welcome  rest. 
It  speaks  of  creation's  early  bloom  ; 
It  speaks  of  the  Prince  who  burst  the  tomb. 
Then  summon  the  spirit's  exalted  powers, 
And  devote  to  Heaven  the  hallow'd  hours, 


SEASONS    OF    PRAYER.  173 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  beside  her  lies. 

O,  hour  of  bliss  !  when  the  heart  o'erflows 

With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows. 

Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer ; 

Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  her  precious  care. 

There  are  smiles  and  tears  in  that  gathering  band, 
Where  the  heart  is  pledged  with  the  trembling  hand. 
What  trying  thoughts  in  her  bosom  swell, 
As  the  bride  bids  parents  and  home  farewell ! 
Kneel  down  by  the  side  of  the  tearful  fair, 
And  strengthen  the  perilous  hour  with  prayer. 

Kneel  down  by  the  dying  sinner's  side, 

And  pray  for  his  soul  through  Him  who  died. 

Large  drops  of  anguish  are  thick  on  his  brow — 

O,  what  is  earth  and  its  pleasures  now  ! 

And  what  shall  assuage  his  dark  despair, 

But  the  penitent  cry  of  humble  prayer  1 

Kneel  down  at  the  couch  of  departing  faith, 

And  hear  the  last  words  the  believer  saith. 

He  has  bidden  adieu  to  his  earthly  friends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  eye  that  upward  bends ; 

There  is  peace  in  his  calm,  confiding  air ; 

For  his  last  thoughts  are  GOD'S,  his  last  words  prayer. 

The  voice  of  prayer  at  the  sable  bier ! 
A  voice  to  sustain,  to  sooth,  and  to  cheer. 
It  commends  the  spirit  to  GOD  who  gave ; 
It  lifts  the  thoughts  from  the  cold,  dark  grave ; 
It  points  to  the  glory  where  he  shall  reign, 
Who  whisper'd,  "  Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 
15* 


174  WINTER. 

The  voice  of  prayer  in  the  world  of  bliss ! 
But  gladder,  purer,  than  rose  from  this. 
The  ransom'd  shout  to  their  glorious  King, 
Where  no  sorrow  shades  the  soul  as  they  sing ; 
But  a  sinless  and  joyous  song  they  raise ; 
And  their  voice  of  prayer  is  eternal  praise. 

Awake,  awake,  and  gird  up  thy  strength 

To  join  that  holy  band  at  length. 

To  him  who  unceasing  love  displays, 

Whom  the  powers  of  nature  unceasingly  praise, 

To  Him  thy  heart  and  thy  hours  be  given ; 

For  a  life  of  prayer  is  the  life  of  heaven. 


WINTER. 

BY    LYD1A    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

I  DEEM  thee  not  unlovely,  though  thou  comest 
With  a  stern  visage.     To  the  tuneful  bird, 
The  blushing  floweret,  the  rejoicing  stream, 
Thy  discipline  is  harsh.     But  unto  man 
Methinks  thou  hast  a  kindlier  ministry. 
Thy  lengthen'd  eve  is  full  of  fireside  joys, 
And  deathless  linking  of  warm  heart  to  heart, 
So  that  the  hoarse  storm  passes  by  unheard. 
Earth,  robed  in  white,  a  peaceful  Sabbath  holds, 
And  keepcth  silence  at  her  Maker's  feet. 
She  ceaseth  from  the  harrowing  of  the  plough, 
And  from  the  harvest-shouting.     Man  should  rest 
Thus  from  his  fever'd  passions,  and  exhale 
The  unbreathed  carbon  of  his  festering  thought, 
And  drink  in  holy  health.     As  the  toss'd  bark 


WINTER.  175 

Doth  seek  the  shelter  of  some  quiet  bay 

To  trim  its  shatter'd  cordage,  and  restore 

Its  riven  sails — so  should  the  toil-worn  mind 

Refit  for  time's  rough  voyage.     Man,  perchance, 

Sour'd  by  the  world's  sharp  commerce,  or  impair'd 

By  the  wild  wanderings  of  his  summer  way, 

Turns  like  a  truant  scholar  to  his  home, 

And  yields  his  nature  to  sweet  influences 

That  purify  and  save.     The  ruddy  boy 

Comes  with  his  shouting  school-mates  from  their  sport, 

On  the  smooth,  frozen  lake,  as  the  first  star 

Hangs,  pure  and  cold,  its  twinkling  cresset  forth, 

And,  throwing  off  his  skates  with  boisterous  glee, 

Hastes  to  his  mother's  side.     Her  tender  hand 

Doth  shake  the  snow-flakes  from  his  glossy  curls, 

And  draw  him  nearer,  and  with  gentle  voice 

Asks  of  his  lessons,  while  her  lifted  heart 

Solicits  silently  the  Sire  of  Heaven 

To  "  bless  the  lad."     The  timid  infant  learns 

Better  to  love  its  sire — and  longer  sits 

Upon  his  knee,  and  with  a  velvet  lip 

Prints  on  his  brow  such  language,  as  the  tongue 

Hath  never  spoken.     Come  thou  to  life's  feast 

With  dove-eyed  meekness,  and  bland  charity, 

And  thou  shalt  find  even  Winter's  rugged  blasts 

The  minstrel  teacher  of  thy  well-tuned  soul, 

And  when  the  last  drop  of  its  cup  is  drain'd — 

Arising  with  a  song  of  praise — go  up 

To  the  eternal  banquet. 


"GOOD-BYE,    PROUD   WORLD!" 

BY    R.    W.    EMERSON. 

GOOD-BYE,  proud  world !     I  'm  going  home  j 
Thou  art  not  my  friend ;  I  am  not  thine ; 
Too  long  through  weary  crowds  I  roam — 

A  river  ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 
Too  long  I  am  toss'd  like  the  driven  foam- 
But  now,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery's  fawning  face ; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace : 

To  upstart  Wealth's  averted  eye  j 

To  supple  office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street, 

To  frozen  hearts,  and  hasting  feet, 

To  those  who  go,  and  those  who  come, — 

Good-bye,  proud  world,  I'm  going  home. 

I  go  to  seek  my  own  hearth-stone 
Bosom'd  in  yon  green  hills  alone ; 
A  secret  lodge  in  a  pleasant  land, 
Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  plann'd, 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day 
Echo  the  blackbird's  roundelay, 
And  evil  men  have  never  trod 
A  spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  GOB, 

O,  when  I  am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 
I  mock  at  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I  am  stretch'd  beneath  the  pines 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 

(176} 


LOOK    ALOFT. 


177 


I  laugh  at  the  lore  and  pride  of  man, 
At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan  ; 
For  what  are  they  all  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet? 


LOOK  ALOFT. 

BY    JONATHAN    LAWRENCE. 

IN  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail, 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim,  and  thy  caution  depart, 
"  Look  aloft !"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 

If  the  friend  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow, 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  woe, 
Should  betray  thee  when  sorrows  like  clouds  are  array'd, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall  fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine  eye, 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  Sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart, 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom,  in  sorrow  depart, 
"  Look  aloft"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  affection  is  ever  in  bloom. 

And  oh !  when  death  comes  in  his  terrors,  to  cast 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft"  and  depart. 


WEEHAWKEN. 

BY    R.    C.    SANDS. 

EVE  o'er  our  path  is  stealing  fast  ; 
Yon  quivering  splendours  are  the  last 
The  sun  will  fling,  to  tremble  o'er 
The  waves  that  kiss  the  opposing  shore ; 
His  latest  glories  fringe  the  height 
Behind  us  with  their  golden  light. 

The  mountain's  mirror'd  outline  fades 
Amid  the  fast-extending  shades ; 
Its  shaggy  bulk,  in  sterner  pride, 
Towers,  as  the  gloom  steals  o'er  the  tide  j 
For  the  great  stream  a  bulwark  meet 
That  leaves  its  rock-encumber'd  feet. 

River  and  mountain !  though  to  song 
Not  yet,  perchance,  your  names  belong  ; 
Those  who  have  loved  your  evening  hues 
Will  ask  not  the  recording  muse 
What  antique  tales  she  can  relate, 
Your  banks  and  steeps  to  consecrate. 

Yet,  should  the  stranger  ask,  what  lore 
Of  by-gone  days,  this  winding  shore, 
Yon  cliffs  and  fir-clad  steeps  could  tell, 
If  vocal  made  by  Fancy's  spell, — 
The  varying  legend  might  rehearse 
Fit  themes  for  high,  romantic  verse. 

(178) 


WEEHAWKEN.  179 

O'er  yon  rough  heights  and  moss-clad  sod, 
Oft  hath  the  stalworth  warrior  trod  ; 
Or  peer'd,  with  hunter's  gaze,  to  mark 
The  progress  of  the  glancing  bark. 
Spoils,  strangely  won  on  distant  waves, 
Have  lurk'd  in  yon  obstructed  caves. 

When  the  great  strife  for  Freedom  rose, 
Here  scouted  oft  her  friends  and  foes, 
Alternate,  through  the  changeful  war, 
And  beacon-fires  flash'd  bright  and  far ; 
And  here,  when  Freedom's  strife  was  won, 
Fell,  in  sad  feud,  her  favour'd  son  ;  — * 

Her  son, — the  second  of  the  band, 
The  Romans  of  the  rescued  land. 
Where  round  yon  capes  the  banks  ascend, 
Long  shall  the  pilgrim's  footsteps  bend ; 
There,  mirthful  hearts  shall  pause  to  sigh, 
There,  tears  shall  dim  the  patriot's  eye. 

There  last  he  stood.     Before  his  sight 
Flow'd  the  fair  river,  free  and  bright ; 
The  rising  mart,  and  isles,  and  bay, 
Before  him  in  their  glory  lay, — 
Scenes  of  his  love  and  of  his  fame, — 
The  instant  ere  the  death-shot  came. 

*  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON,  murdered  by  AARON  BURR. 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 

BY    H.    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

FILL'D  is  Life's  goblet  to  the  brim ; 
And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I  see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim, 
And  chant  a  melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers, — no  garlands  green, 
Conceal  the  goblet's  shade  or  sheen, 
Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  misletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art, 
Is  fill'd  with  waters,  that  upstart, 
When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 
By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 
Are  running  all  to  waste. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 
With  fennel  is  it  wreath'd  and  crown'd, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-imbrown'd 
Are  in  its  waters  steep'd  and  drown'd, 
And  give  a  bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers, 
The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers, 
And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers, 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

(180) 


THE    GOBLET    OF    LIFE.  181 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude, 
Mingled  it  in  their  daily  food ; 
And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 
A  wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press 
The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 
Nor  prize  the  colour'd  waters  less, 
For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learn'd  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show, 
How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe, 
With  which  its  brim  may  overflow, 
He  has  not  learn'd  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night, 
He  ask'd  but  the  return  of  sight, 
To  see  his  foeman's  face. 

Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light, — for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 
That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

O  suffering,  sad  humanity ! 
O  ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steep'd  to  the  lips  in  misery, 
Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die, 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried ! 
16 


182  LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE. 

I  pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief, 
Where  floats  the  fennel's  bitter  leaf! 
The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 
The  alarm,  —  the  struggle,  —  the  relief,  — 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side. 


tit 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  EUROPE. 

BY    N.    P.    WILLIS. 

BRIGHT  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast, 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue ; 

Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 
And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew ! 

Strain  home  !  O  lithe  and  quivering  spars  ! 

Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars  ! 

The  wind  blows  fair,  the  vessel  feels 

The  pressure  of  the  rising  breeze, 
And,  swiftest  of  a  thousand  keels, 

She  leaps  to  the  careering  seas  ! 
O,  fair,  fair  cloud  of  snowy  sail, 

In  whose  white  breast  I  seem  to  lie, 
How  oft,  when  blew  this  eastern  gale, 

I've  seen  your  semblance  in  the  sky, 
And  long'd,  with  breaking  heart,  to  flee 

On  such  white  pinions  o'er  the  sea ! 

Adieu,  O  lands  of  fame  and  eld ! 

I  turn  to  watch  our  foamy  track, 
And  thoughts  with  which  I  first  beheld 

Yon  clouded  line,  come  hurrying  back ; 
My  lips  are  dry  with  vague  desire, 

My  cheek  once  more  is  hot  with  joy ; 


LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE.  183 

My  pulse,  my  brain,  my  soul  on  fire  ! 

O,  what  has  changed  that  traveler-boy ! 
As  leaves  the  ship  this  dying  foam, 
His  visions  fade  behind — his  weary  heart  speeds  home ! 

Adieu,  O  soft  and  southern  shore, 

Where  dwelt  the  stars  long  miss'd  in  heaven; 
Those  forms  of  beauty,  seen  no  more, 

Yet  once  to  Art's  rapt  vision  given ! 
O,  still  the  enamourM  sun  delays, 

And  pries  through  fount  and  crumbling  fane, 
To  win  to  his  adoring  gaze 

Those  children  of  the  sky  again ! 
Irradiate  beauty,  such  as  never 

That  light  on  other  earth  hath  shone, 
Hath  made  this  land  her  home  for  ever  ; 

And,  could  I  live  for  this  alone, 
Were  not  my  birthright  brighter  far 

Than  such  voluptuous  slave's  can  be ; 
Held  not  the  west  one  glorious  star, 

New-born  and  blazing  for  the  free, 
Soar'd  not  to  heaven  our  eagle  yet, 
Rome,  with  her  helot  sons,  should  teach  me  to  forget ! 

Adieu,  O,  fatherland  !     I  see 

Your  white  cliffs  on  the  horizon's  rim, 
And,  though  to  freer  skies  I  flee, 

My  heart  swells,  and  my  eyes  are  dim ! 
As  knows  the  dove  the  task  you  give  her, 

When  loosed  upon  a  foreign  shore ; 
As  spreads  the  rain-drop  in  the  river 

In  which  it  may  have  flow'd  before — 
To  England,  over  vale  and  mountain, 

My  fancy  flew  from  climes  more  fair, 
My  blood,  that  knew  its  parent  fountain, 

Ran  warm  and  fast  in  England's  air. 


184  LINES    ON    LEAVING     EUROPE. 

My  mother  !  in  thy  prayer  to-night 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears ! 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the  light, 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years  I 
Sleep  safe,  O  wave- worn  mariner, 

Fear  not,  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea ! 
The  ear  of  heaven  bends  low  to  her! 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me ! 
The  wind-toss'd  spider  needs  no  token 

How  stands  the  tree  when  lightnings  blaze : 
And,  by  a  thread  from  heaven  unbroken, 

I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays ! 

Dear  mother !  when  our  lips  can  speak, 

When  first  our  tears  will  let  us  see, 
When  I  can  gaze  upon  thy  cheek, 

And  thou,  with  thy  dear  eyes,  on  me — 
'Twill  be  a  pastime  little  sad 

To  trace  what  weight  Time's  heavy  fingers 
Upon  each  other's  forms  have  had ; 

For  all  may  flee,  so  feeling  lingers ! 
But  there's  a  change,  beloved  mother, 

To  stir  far  deeper  thoughts  of  thine ; 
I  come — but  with  me  comes  another, 

To  share  the  heart  once  only  mine ! 
Thou,  on  whose  thoughts,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven  ; 
Thou,  who  hast  watch'd  one  treasure  only, 

Water'd  one  flower  with  tears  at  even  : 
Room  in  thy  heart !     The  hearth  she  left 

Is  darken'd  to  make  light  to  ours ! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts  that  languish  more  than  flowers ; 
She  was  their  light,  their  very  air — 
Room,  mother,  in  thy  heart !  place  for  her  in  thy  prayer ! 


TO  AN  INFANT  IN  HEAVEN. 

BY   THOMAS    WARD. 

THOU  bright  and  star-like  spirit ! 

That,  in  my  visions  wild, 
I  see  mid  heaven's  seraphic  host — 

O !  canst  thou  be  my  child  ! 

My  grief  is  quench'd  in  wonder, 

And  pride  arrests  my  sighs ; 
A  branch  from  this  unworthy  stock 

Now  blossoms  in  the  skies, 

Our  hopes  of  thee  were  lofty, 

But  have  we  cause  to  grieve  ? 
O !  could  our  fondest,  proudest  wish 

A  nobler  fate  conceive  ? 

The  little  weeper,  tearless, 

The  sinner,  snatch'd  from  sin ; 
The  babe,  to  more  than  manhood  grown, 

Ere  childhood  did  begin. 

And  I,  thy  earthly  teacher, 

Would  blush  thy  powers  to  see  \ 
Thou  art  to  me  a  parent  now, 

And  I,  a  child  to  thee ! 

Thy  brain,  so  uninstructed 

While  in  this  lowly  state, 
Now  threads  the  mazy  track  of  spheres, 

Or  reads  the  book  of  fate. 

10  *  (185> 


186         TO  AN  INFANT  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thine  eyes,  so  curb'd  in  vision, 
Now  range  the  realms  of  space — 

Look  down  upon  the  rolling  stars, 
Look  up  to  GOD'S  own  face. 

Thy  little  hand,  so  helpless, 

That  scarce  its  toys  could  hold, 

Now  clasps  its  mate  in  holy  prayer, 
Or  twangs  a  harp  of  gold. 

Thy  feeble  feet,  unsteady, 

That  totter'd  as  they  trod, 
With  angels  walk  the  heavenly  paths, 

Or  stand  before  their  GOD. 

Nor  is  thy  tongue  less  skilful ; 

Before  the  throne  divine 
'T  is  pleading  for  a  mother's  weal, 

As  once  she  pray'd  for  thine. 

What  bliss  is  born  of  sorrow ! 

'Tis  never  sent  in  vain — 
The  heavenly  surgeon  maims  to  save, 

He  gives  no  useless  pain. 

Our  GOD,  to  call  us  homeward, 

His  only  Son  sent  down ; 
And  now,  still  more  to  tempt  our  hearts, 

Has  taken  up  our  own. 


MARIUS  AMID  THE  RUINS  OF  CARTHAGE, 

BY    LYDIA    M.    CHILD. 

PILLARS  are  fallen  at  thy  feet, 

Fanes  quiver  in  the  air, 
A  prostrate  city  is  thy  seat, 

And  thou  alone  art  there. 

No  change  comes  o'er  thy  noble  brow, 

Though  ruin  is  around  thee ; 
Thine  eyebeam  burns  as  proudly  now, 

As  when  the  laurel  crown'd  thee. 

It  cannot  bend  thy  lofty  soul 

Though  friends  and  fame  depart ; 

The  car  of  fate  may  o*er  thee  roll, 
Nor  crush  thy  Roman  heart, 

And  genius  hath  electric  power, 

Which  earth  can  never  tame ; 
Bright  suns  may  scorch,  and  dark  clouds  lower, 

Its  flash  is  still  the  same, 

The  dreams  we  loved  in  early  life, 

May  melt  like  mist  away  ; 
High  thoughts  may  seem,  mid  passion's  strife, 

Like  Carthage  in  decay ; 

And  proud  hopes  in  the  human  heart 

May  be  to  ruin  hurl'd  ; 
Like  mouldering  monuments  of  art 

Heap'd  on  a  sleeping  world  : 

(187) 


188  ENDYMION. 

Yet,  there  is  something  will  not  die, 
Where  life  hath  once  been  fair ; 

Some  towering  thoughts  still  rear  on  high, 
Some  Roman  lingers  there ! 


ENDYMION. 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

THE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars, 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 
Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this, 
She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 
When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 
He  dream'd  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unask'd,  unsought, 
Loves  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassion'd  gaze. 

It  comes — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity — 
In  silence  and  alone 
To  seek  the  elected  one. 


THE    SUM    OF    LIFE.  189 

It  lifts  the  bows,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 

And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 

Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

O,  weary  hearts !  O,  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  its  own. 

Responds — as  if,  with  unseen  wings, 
A  breath  from  heaven  had  touch'd  its  strings ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"  Where  hast  thou  stay'd  so  long  ?" 


THE   SUM  OF   LIFE. 

BY   J.    O.    ROCKWELL. 

SEARCHER  of  gold,  whose  days  and  nights 

All  waste  away  in  anxious  care, 
Estranged  from  all  of  life's  delights, 

Unlearn'd  in  all  that  is  most  fair — 
Who  sailest  not  with  easy  glide, 
But  delvest  in  the  depths  of  tide, 
And  struggles!  in  the  foam ; 
O  !  come  and  view  this  land  of  graves, 
Death's  northern  sea  of  frozen  waves, 
And  mark  thee  out  thy  home. 


190  THE    SUM    OF    LIFE. 

Lover  of  woman,  whose  sad  heart 

Wastes  like  a  fountain  in  the  sun, 
Clings  most,  where  most  its  pain  does  start, 

Dies  by  the  light  it  lives  upon ; 
Come  to  the  land  of  graves ;  for  here 
Are  beauty's  smile,  and  beauty's  tear, 

Gather'd  in  holy  trust ; 
Here  slumber  forms  as  fair  as  those 
Whose  cheeks,  now  living,  shame  the  rose, 
Their  glory  turn'd  to  dust. 

Lover  of  fame,  whose  foolish  thought 
Steals  onward  o'er  the  wave  of  time, 

Tell  me,  what  goodness  hath  it  brought, 
Atoning  for  that  restless  crime  ? 

The  spirit-mansion  desolate, 

And  open  to  the  storms  of  fate, 
The  absent  soul  in  fear  ; 

Bring  home  thy  thoughts  and  come  with  me, 

And  see  where  all  thy  pride  must  be : 
Searcher  of  fame,  look  here ! 

And,  warrior,  thou  with  snowy  plume, 

That  goest  to  the  bugle's  call, 
Come  and  look  down  ;  this  lonely  tomb 

Shall  hold  thee  and  thy  glories  all : 
The  haughty  brow,  the  manly  frame, 
The  daring  deeds,  the  sounding  fame, 

Are  trophies  but  for  death  ! 
And  millions  who  have  toil'd  like  thee, 
Are  stay'd,  and  here  they  sleep ;  and  see, 
Does  glory  lend  them  breath  ? 


THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 

BY    AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 

O,  THOU  who  fling'st  so  fair  a  robe 

Of  clouds  around  the  hills  untrod — - 
Those  mountain-pillars  of  the  globe 

Whose  peaks  sustain  thy  throne,  O  GOD  ! 
All  glittering  round  the  sunset  skies, 

Their  fleecy  wings  are  lightly  furl'd, » 
As  if  to  shade  from  mortal  eyes 

The  glories  of  yon  upper  world  ; 
There,  while  the  evening  star  upholds 
In  one  bright  spot,  their  purple  folds, 
My  spirit  lifts  its  silent  prayer, 
For  Thou,  O  GOD  of  love,  art  there. 

The  summer-flowers,  the  fair,  the  sweet, 

Up-springing  freely  from  the  sod, 
In  whose  soft  looks  we  seem  to  meet 

At  every  step,  thy  smiles,  O  GOD  ! 
The  humblest  soul  their  sweetness  shares, 

They  bloom  in  palace-hall,  or  cot, — 
Give  me,  O  Lord,  a  heart  like  theirs, 

Contented  with  my  lowly  lot  ; 
Within  their  pure,  ambrosial  bells* 

In  odours  sweet  thy  spirit  dwells. 
Their  breath  may  seem  to  scent  the  air — 

'Tis  thine,  O  GOD!  for  Thou  art  there. 

(191) 


192  THE    PRESENCE    OF    GOD. 

Hark !  from  yon  casement,  low  and  dim, 

What  sounds  are  these  that  fill  the  breeze? 
It  is  the  peasant's  evening  hymn 

Arrests  the  fisher  on  the  seas  ; 
The  old  man  leans  his  silver  hairs 

Upon  his  light  suspended  oar, 
Until  those  soft  delicious  airs 

Have  died  like  ripples  on  the  shore. 
Why  do  his  eyes  in  softness  roll  ? 
What  melts  the  manhood  from  his  soul  ? 
His  heart  is  fill'd  with  peace  and  prayer, 
For  Thou,  O  GOD,  art  with  him  there. 

The  birds  among  the  summer  blooms 

Pour  forth  to  Thee  their  hymns  of  love, 
When,  trembling  on  uplifted  plumes, 

They  leave  the  earth  and  soar  above ; 
We  hear  their  sweet,  familiar  airs, 

Where'er  a  sunny  spot  is  found : 
How  lovely  is  a  life  like  theirs, 

Diffusing  sweetness  all  around  ! 
From  clime  to  clime,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  sweetest  anthems  softly  roll ; 
Till,  melting  on  the  realms  of  air, 
They  reach  thy  throne  in  grateful  prayer. 

The  stars — those  floating  isles  of  light, 

Round  which  the  clouds  unfurl  their  sails, 
Pure  as  a  woman's  robe  of  white 

That  trembles  round  the  form  it  veils, — 
They  touch  the  heart  as  with  a  spell, 

Yet  set  the  soaring  fancy  free : 
And,  O !   how  sweet  the  tales  they  tell 

Of  faith,  of  peace,  of  love,  and  Thee. 


THE    PRESENCE    OF    GOD.  193 

Each  raging  storm  that  wildly  blows, 
Each  balmy  breeze  that  lifts  the  rose, 
Sublimely  grand,  or  softly  fair — 
They  speak  of  thee,  for  Thou  art  there. 

The  spirit,  oft  oppressed  with  doubt, 

May  strive  to  cast  thee  from  its  thought ; 
But  who  can  shut  thy  presence  out, 

Thou  mighty  Guest  that  comest  unsought ! 
In  spite  of  all  our  cold  resolves, 

Magnetic-like,  where'er  we  be, 
Still,  still  the  thoughtful  heart  revolves, 

And  points,  all  trembling,  up  to  thee. 
We  cannot  shield  a  troubled  breast 
Beneath  the  confines  of  the  blest — 
Above,  below,  on  earth,  in  air, 
For  Thou,  the  living  GOD,  art  there. 

Yet,  far  beyond  the  clouds  outspread, 

Where  soaring  fancy  oft  hath  been, 
There  is  a  land  where  Thou  hast  said 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  enter  in  ; 
There,  in  those  realms  so  calmly  bright, 

How  many  a  loved  and  gentle  one 
Bathe  their  soft  plumes  in  living  light, 

That  sparkles  from  thy  radiant  throne ! 
There,  souls  once  soft  and  sad  as  ours 
Look  up  and  sing  mid  fadeless  flowers ; 
They  dream  no  more  of  grief  and  care, 
For  Thou,  the  GOD  of  peace,  art  there. 
17 


TWILIGHT. 

BY    FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK. 

THERE  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart, 

When  its  wild  passion  waves  are  lull'd  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 

As  fades  the  daybeam  in  the  rosy  west. 
'Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet, 

But  Hope  is  round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour  ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early  power. 

In  youth'  the  cheek  was  crimson'd  with  her  glow  ; 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then ;  her  matin  song 
Was  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  woe 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 
Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born ; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die. 
Flush'd  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn, 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mock'd  the  passing  clouds  that  dimm'd  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then — as  fleeting  and  as  few. 

And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too, — on  the  eye, 
Half  realized,  her  early  dreams  burst  bright, 

Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seem'd  nigh, 
Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight ; 

And  though  at  times  might  lower  the  thunder  storm, 
And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 

(194) 


TO    THE    RIVER    CHARLES,  195 

Was  balmy  with  her  breath,  and  her  loved  form, 
The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 
'Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen, 
Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer  green. 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress, 

There 's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her  now ; 
That  angel-smile  of  tranquil  loveliness, 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 
That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening  star 

That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 
Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar, 

And  hush'd  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart ; 
The  meteor-bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 
A  moonbeam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 


TO   THE   RIVER   CHARLES. 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

RIVER  !  that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 

In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling, 
Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I  have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life, 

Thou  hast  taught  me,  Silent  River  1 
Many  a  lesson,  deep  and  long  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver ; 
I  can  give  thee  but  a  song. 


196  TO    THE    RIVER    CHARLES. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I  have  watch'd  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a  tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 
When  I  saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I  have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 
And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 

Not  for  this  alone  I  love  thee, 
Nor  because  thy  waves  of  blue 

From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 

And  thy  waters  disappear, 
Friends  I  loved  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 

And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this ;— thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried ; 

And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start-, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart ! 

Tis  for  this,  thou  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee ; 
Thou  hast  been  a  generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


,11V/ 

&v&=. 


"LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT." 

BY    WILLIAM    H.    BURLEIGH. 

NIGHT,  stern,  eternal,  and  alone, 

Girded  with  solemn  silence  round, 
Majestic  on  his  starless  throne, 

Sat  brooding  o'er  the  vast  profound — 
And  there  unbroken  darkness  lay, 

Deeper  than  that  which  veils  the  tomb,. 
While  circling  ages  wheeFd  away 

Unnoted  mid  the  voiceless  gloom. 

Then  moved  upon  the  wakeless  deep 
The  quickening  Spirit  of  the  Lord, 

And  broken  was  its  pulseless  sleep 
Before  the  Everlasting  Word  ! 

"  Let  there  be  light !"  and  listening  earth, 
With  tree,  and  plant,  and  flowery  sod, 

"  In  the  beginning"  sprang  to  birth, 

Obedient  to  the  voice  of  GOD. 

[fiov  itr.'.j  ^aitlijy.'i 

Then,  in  his  burning  track,  the  sun 

Trod  onward  to  his  joyous  noon, 
And  in  the  heavens,  one  by  one, 

Cluster'd  the  stars  around  the  moon — 
In  glory  bathed,  the  radiant  day 

Wore  like  a  king  his  crown  of  light — 
And,  girdled  by  the  "  Milky  Way," 

How  queenly  look'd  the  star-gemm'd  night ! 

«* 


198 


Bursting  from  choirs  celestial,  rang 

Triumphantly  the  notes  of  song ; 
The  morning  stars  together  sang 

In  concert  with  the  heavenly  throng ; 
And  earth,  enraptured,  caught  the  strain 

That  thrill'd  along  her  fields  of  air, 
Till  every  mountain-top  and  plain 

Flung  back  an  answering  echo  there ! 

Creator !  let  thy  Spirit  shine 

The  darkness  of  our  souls  within, 
And  lead  us  by  thy  grace  divine 

From  the  forbidden  paths  of  sin ; 
And  may  that  voice  which  bade  the  earth 

From  Chaos  and  the  realms  of  Night, 
From  doubt  and  darkness  call  us  forth 

To  GOD'S  own  liberty  and  light ! 

Thus,  made  partakers  of  Thy  love, 

The  baptism  of  the  Spirit  ours, 
Our  grateful  hearts  shall  rise  above, 

Renew'd  in  purposes  and  powers ; 
And  songs  of  joy  again  shall  ring 

Triumphant  through  the  arch  of  heaven — 
The  glorious  songs  which  angels  sing, 

Exulting  over  souls  forgiven ! 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  CHURCHYARD. 

BY    OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 

OUR  ancient  church  !  its  lowly  tower, 

Beneath  the  loftier  spire, 
Is  shadow'd  when  the  sunset  hour 

Clothes  the  tall  shaft  in  fire ; 
It  sinks  beyond  the  distant  eye, 

Long  ere  the  glittering  vane, 
High  wheeling  in  the  western  sky, 

Has  faded  o'er  the  plain. 

Like  sentinel  and  nun,  they  keep 

Their  vigil  on  the  green  ; 
One  seems  to  guard,  and  one  to  weep, 

The  dead  that  lie  between  ; 
And  both  roll  out,  so  full  and  near, 

Their  music's  mingling  waves, 
They  shake  the  grass,  whose  pennon'd  spear 

Leans  on  the  narrow  graves. 

The  stranger  parts  the  flaunting  weeds, 

Whose  seeds  the  winds  have  strown 
So  thick  beneath  the  line  he  reads, 

They  shade  the  sculptured  stone ; 
The  child  unveils  his  cluster'd  brow, 

And  ponders  for  a  while 
The  graven  willow's  pendent  bough, 

Or  rudest  cherub's  smile. 

(199) 


200  THE     CAMBRIDGE    CHURCHYARD. 

But  what  to  them  the  dirge,  the  knell  ? 

These  were  the  mourner's  share ; 
The  sullen  clang,  whose  heavy  swell 

Throbb'd  through  the  beating  air ; 
The  rattling  cord,— the  rolling  stone, — 

The  shelving  sand  that  slid, 
And,  far  beneath,  with  hollow  tone 

Rung  on  the  coffin's  lid. 

The  slumberer's  mound  grows  fresh  and  green, 

Then  slowly  disappears ; 
The  mosses  creep,  the  gray  stones  lean, 

Earth  hides  his  date  and  years; 
But,  long  before  the  once-loved  name 

Is  sunk  or  worn  away, 
No  lip  the  silent  dust  may  claim, 

That  press'd  the  breathing  clay. 

Go  where  the  ancient  pathway  guides, 

See  where  our  sires  laid  down 
Their  smiling  babes,  their  cherish'd  brides, 

The  patriarchs  of  the  town ; 
Hast  thou  a  tear  for  buried  love  ? 

A  sigh  for  transient  power  ? 
All  that  a  century  left  above, 

Go,  read  it  in  an  hour ! 

The  Indian's  shaft,  the  Briton's  ball, 

The  sabre's  thirsting  edge, 
The  hot  shell,  shattering  in  its  fall, 

The  bayonet's  rending  wedge, — 
Here  scatter'd  death ;  yet  seek  the  spot, 

No  trace  thine  eye  can  see, 
No  altar, — and  they  need  it  not 

Who  leave  their  children  free ! 


THE    CAMBRIDGE    CHURCHYARD.  201 

Look  where  the  turbid  raindrops  stand 

In  many  a  chisel'd  square, 
The  knightly  crest,  the  shield,  the  brand 

Of  honour'd  names  were  there ; 
Alas  !  for  every  tear  is  dried 

Those  blazon'd  tablets  knew, 
Save  when  the  icy  marble's  side 

Drips  with  the  evening  dew. 

Or  gaze  upon  yon  pillar'd  stone,* 

The  empty  urn  of  pride ; 
There  stands  the  goblet  and  the  sun, — 

What  need  of  more  beside  ? 
Where  lives  the  memory  of  the  dead  ? 

Who  made  their  tomb  a  toy  ? 
Whose  ashes  press  that  nameless  bed? 

Go,  ask  the  village  boy ! 

Lean  o'er  the  slender  western  wall, 

Ye  ever-roaming  girls; 
The  breath  that  bids  the  blossom  fall 

May  lift  your  floating  curls, 
To  sweep  the  simple  lines  that  tell  - 

An  exile's  f  date  and  doom  ,* 
And  sigh,  for  where  his  daughters  dwell, 

They  wreath  the  stranger's  tomb. 

And  one  amid  these  shades  was  born, 

Beneath  this  turf  who  lies, 
Once  beaming  as  the  summer's  morn, 

That  closed  her  gentle  eyes  ; 

*  The  tomb  of  the  VASSALL  family  is  marked  by  a  freestone  tablet, 
supported  by  five  pillars,  and  bearing  nothing  but  the  sculptured  re 
liefs  of  the  goblet  and  the  sun, — Vas-Sol, — which  designated  a  pow 
erful  family,  now  almost  forgotten. 

t  The  exile  referred  to  in  this  stanza  was  a  native  of  Honfleur,  in 
Normandy, 


202  THE     CAMBRIDGE     CHURCHYARP. 

If  sinless  angels  love  as  we, 

Who  stood  thy  grave  beside, 

Three  seraph  welcomes  waited  thee, 
The  daughter,  sister,  bride  1 

I  wander'd  to  thy  buried  mound, 

When  earth  was  hid,  below 
The  level  of  the  glaring  ground, 

Choked  to  its  gates  with  snow, 
And  when  with  summer's  flowery  waves 

The  lake  of  verdure  roll'd, 
As  if  a  sultan's  white-robed  slaves 

Had  scatter'd  pearls  and  gold. 

Nay,  the  soft  pinions  of  the  air, 

That  lifts  this  trembling  tone, 
Its  breath  of  love  may  almost  bear, 

To  kiss  thy  funeral  stone ; 
And,  now  thy  smiles  have  pass'd  away, 

For  all  the  joy  they  gave, 
May  sweetest  dews  and  warmest  ray 

Jjie  on  thine  early  grave ! 

When  damps  beneath,  and  storms  above, 

Have  bow'd  those  fragile  towers, 
Still  o'er  the  graves  yon  locust  grove 

Shall  swing  its  orient  flowers  ; 
And  I  would  ask  no  mouldering  bust, 

If  e'er  this  humble  line, 
Which  breathed  a  sigh  o'er  other's  dust, 

Might  call  a  tear  on  mine. 


THE  SHADED  WATER. 

BY   WILLIAM    G.    SIMMS. 

WHEN  that  my  mood  is  sad,  and  in  the  noise 
And  bustle  of  the  crowd,  I  feel  rebuke, 

I  turn  my  footsteps  from  its  hollow  joys, 
And  sit  me  down  beside  this  little  brook : 

The  waters  have  a  music  to  mine  ear 

It  glads  me  much  to  hear. 

It  is  a  quiet  glen  as  you  may  see, 

Shut  in  from  all  intrusion  by  the  trees, 

That  spread  their  giant  branches,  broad  and  free, 
The  silent  growth  of  many  centuries ; 

And  make  a  hallow'd  time  for  hapless  moods, 

A  Sabbath  of  the  woods. 

Few  know  its  quiet  shelter, — hone,  like  me, 
Do  seek  it  out  with  such  a  fond  desire, 

Poring,  in  idlesse  mood,  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  listening,  as  the  voiceless  leaves  respire, — 

When  the  far-travelling  breeze,  done  wandering, 

Rests  here  his  weary  wing. 

And  all  the  day,  with  fancies  ever  new, 

And  sweet  companions  from  their  boundless  store 

Of  merry  elves,  bespangled  all  with  dew, 
Fantastic  creatures  of  the  old  time  lore, — 

Watching  their  wild  but  unobtrusive  play, 

I  fling  the  hours  away. 


204  THE     SHADED     WATER. 

A  gracious  couch, — the  root  of  an  old  oak, 
Whose  branches  yield  it  moss  and  canopy, — 

Is  mine — and  so  it  be  from  woodman's  stroke 
Secure,  shall  never  be  resign'd  by  me ; 

It  hangs  above  the  stream  that  idly  plies, 

Heedless  of  any  eyes. 

There,  with  eye  sometimes  shut,  but  upward  bent, 
Sweetly  I  muse  through  many  a  quiet  hour, 

While  every  sense,  on  earnest  mission  sent, 

Returns,  thought-laden,  back  with  bloom  and  flower, 

Pursuing,  though  rebuked  by  those  who  moil, 

A  profitable  toil. 

And  still  the  waters,  trickling  at  my  feet, 
Wind  on  their  way  with  gentlest  melody, 

Yielding  sweet  music,  which  the  leaves  repeat, 
Above  them,  to  the  gay  breeze  gliding  by, — 

Yet  not  so  rudely  as  to  send  one  sound 

Through  the  thick  copse  around. 

Sometimes  a  brighter  cloud  than  all  the  rest 

Hangs  o'er  the  archway  opening  through  the  trees, 

Breaking  the  spell  that,  like  a  slumber,  press'd 
On  my  worn  spirit  its  sweet  luxuries, — 

And,  with  awaken'd  vision  upward  bent, 

I  watch  the  firmament. 

How  like — its  sure  and  undisturb'd  retreat, 
Life's  sanctuary  at  last,  secure  from  storm — 

To  the  pure  waters  trickling  at  my  feet, 

The  bending  trees  that  overshade  my  form ; 

So  far  as  sweetest  things  of  earth  may  seem 

Like  those  of  which  we  dream. 


THE     FUTURE     LIFE.  205 

Thus,  to  my  mind,  is  the  philosophy 

The  young  bird  teaches,  who,  with  sudden  flight, 
Sails  far  into  the  blue  that  spreads  on  high, 

Until  I  lose  him  from  my  straining  sight, — 
With  a  most  lofty  discontent,  to  fly 
Upward,  from  earth  to  sky. 


THE   FUTURE   LIFE. 

BY  WILLIAM  C.  BRYANT. 

How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 

The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 
When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 

And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not  ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 

That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were  given  ? 
My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 

Shall  it  be  banish'd  from  thy  tongue  in  heaven  ? 

In  meadows  framed  by  heaven's  life-breathing  wind, 
In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 

And  larger  movements  of  the  unfetter'd  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  join'd  us  here ; 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  Bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

18 


206  THE    OLD    MAN'S   LAMENT. 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 

Await  thee  there ;  for  thou  hast  bow'd  thy  will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 

Shrink  and  consume  the  heart,  as  heat  the  scroll ; 

And  wrath  hath  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Hath  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilt  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the  same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learn'd  so  ill  in  this^ 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  1 


THE  OLD   MAN'S  LAMENT. 

BY    EMMA    C.    EMBURY. 

0  !  FOR  one  draught  of  those  sweet  waters  now 
That  shed  such  freshness  o'er  my  early  life ! 
O  !  that  I  could  but  bathe  my  fever'd  brow 

To  wash  away  the  dust  of  worldly  strife ! 
And  be  a  simple-hearted  child  once  more, 
As  if  I  ne'er  had  known  this  world's  pernicious  lore  1 

My  heart  is  weary,  and  my  spirit  pants 
Beneath  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  ; 

Would  that  I  could  regain  those  shady  haunts, 

Where  once,  with  Hope,  I  dream'd  the  hours  away, 

Giving  my  thoughts  to  tales  of  old  romance, 
And  yielding  up  my  soul  to  youth's  delicious  trance ! 


THE     OLD     MAN'S     LAMENT.  207 

Vain  are  such  wishes !     I  no  more  may  tread 
With  lingering  step  and  slow  the  green  hill-side ; 

Before  me  now  life's  shortening  path  is  spread, 
And  I  must  onward,  whatsoe'er  betide  ; 

The  pleasant  nooks  of  youth  are  pass'd  for  aye, 
And  sober  scenes  now  meet  the  traveler  on  his  way. 

Alas  !  the  dust  which  clogs  my  weary  feet 
Glitters  with  fragments  of  each  ruin'd  shrine, 

Where  once  my  spirit  worshipp'd,  when,  with  sweet 
And  passionless  devotion,  it  could  twine 

Its  strong  affections  round  earth's  earthliest  things, 
Yet  bear  away  no  stain  upon  its  snowy  wings. 

What  though   some  flowers   have  'scaped  the  tempest's 

wrath? 

Daily  they  droop  by  nature's  swift  decay : 
What  though  the  setting  sun  still  lights  my  path  ? 

Morn's  dewy  freshness  long  has  pass'd  away. 
O !  give  me  back  life's  newly-budded  flowers, 
Let  me  once  more  inhale  the  breath  of  morning's  hours ! 

My  youth  !  my  youth  ! — O,  give  me  back  my  youth ! 

Not  the  unfurrow'd  brow  and  blooming  cheek  ; 
But  childhood's  sunny  thoughts,  its  perfect  truth, 

And  youth's  unworldly  feelings, — these  I  seek ; 
Ah,  who  could  e'er  be  sinless  and  yet  sage  ? 
Would  that  I  might  forget  Time's  dark  and  blotted  page ! 


CONSUMPTION. 

BY    J.    G.    PERCIVAL. 

THERE  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 
When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  away, 
When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone, 
And  the  tint  that  glow'd,  and  the  eye  that  shone, 
And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 
And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower 
That  ever  in  PaBstum's  garden  blew, 
Or  ever  was  steep'd  in  fragrant  dew, 
When  all  that  was  bright  and  fair  is  fled, 
But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

O !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  wither'd  rose ; 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallow'd  rays ; 
And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 
Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye, 
Like  a  cloud  whereon  the  queen  of  night 
Has  pour'd  her  softest  tint  of  light ; 
And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue, 
Where  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 
The  snow  of  her  pale  and  tender  cheek ; 
And  there  are  tones  that  sweetly  speak 
Of  a  spirit  who  longs  for  a  purer  day, 
And  is  ready  to  wing  her  flight  away. 

(206) 


CONSUMPTION.  209 

In  the  flush  of  youth,  and  the  spring  of  feeling, 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealing 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path, 
And  all  the  endearments  that  pleasure  hath 
Are  pour'd  from  her  full,  o'erflowing  horn, 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn, 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song 
The  maiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 
And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound ; 
Where  a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit, 
With  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit, 
And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core, 
And  the  heart  in  its  fulness  flowing  o'er 
With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repress'd, 
For  short  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast : 
In  this  enlivenTd  and  gladsome  hour 
The  spirit  may  burn  with  a  brighter  power ; 
But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day, 
When  the  heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining, 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper,  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath, 
When  it  comes  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose : 
And  the  lip,  that  swell'd  with  a  living  glow, 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fallen  snow : 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair — 
But  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there 
When  the  tide  of  life,  from  its  secret  dwelling, 
In  a  sudden  gush,  is  deeply  swelling. 


210  CONSUMPTION, 

And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips, 

Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 

As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too 

As  the  clouds  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 

That  seem  like  a  host  of  glory,  met 

To  honour  the  sun  at  his  golden  set ; 

O  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 

How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  one  cling, 

As  if  she  would  blend  her  soul  with  his 

In  a  deep  and  long  imprinted  kiss ; 

So  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 

Where  the  glassy  vapour  cheats  his  eyes ; 

And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 

And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 

And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 

Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 

And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled, 

And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 

Her  eye  .still  beams  unwonted  fires, 

With  a  woman's  love,  and  a  saint's  desires, 

And  her  last,  fond,  lingering  look  is  given 

To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  heaven, 

As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 

To  a  purer  world,  and  a  brighter  day. 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT. 

BY    JOHN    G.    WHITTIER. 

LOOK  on  him — through  his  dungeon-grate, 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head— 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seam'd  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  flow 
His  long,  dishevel'd  locks  of  snow, 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, — 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill : 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague-thrill ! 

Silent — save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound  half-murmur  and  half-groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip  : 

O,  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chain'd  and  desolate ! 

Just  GOD  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  1 
A  murderer  shares  his  prison-bed, 

Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 
Gleam  on  him  fierce  and  red  ; 

And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 

Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 

(211) 


212  THE     PRISONER     FOR     DEBT. 

And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  fibre  thrill  and  creep, 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson'd  with  murder,  touches  him  ! 

What  has  the  gray-hair'd  prisoner  done? 

Has  murder  stain'd  his  hands  with  gore  ? 
Not  so  :  his  crime 's  a  fouler  one  : 

God  made  the  old  man  poor  / 
For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell — 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell  ! 
For  this — the  boon  for  which  he  pour'd 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost — 
His  blood-gain' d  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  pour'd  thy  blood  as  rain 
On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 

And  Saratoga's  plain? 
Look  forth,  thou  man  of  many  scars, 
Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars ! 
It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument*  uprear'd  to  thee — 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison-cell — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out  ; 

Shout  "  Freedom  !"  till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle-shout : 

Let  boasted  eloquence  declaim 

Of  honour,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 

*  Bunker  Hill  Monument, 


THE     PRISONER     FOR     DEBT.  213 

Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  "  glory"  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty !" 

And  when  the  patriot  cannon  jars 

That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 
And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 

Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall — 
Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 
Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  1 
Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 
Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 
Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chain'd  of  limb, 
What  is  your  carnival  to  him? 

Down  with  the  law  that  binds  him  thus  I 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  GOD  and  human  kind  ! 
Open  the  prisoner's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code, 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  GOD  ! 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand ! 


THE  LYRE  AND  SWORD. 

BY  GEOBGE  LUNT. 

THE  freeman's  glittering  sword  be  blest, — 

For  ever  blest  the  freeman's  lyre, — 
That  rings  upon  the  tyrant's  crest ; 

This  stirs  the  heart  like  living  fire : 
Well  can  he  wield  the  shining  brand, 
Who  battles  for  his  native  land  ; 

But  when  his  fingers  sweep  the  chords, 
That  summon  heroes  to  the  fray, 

They  gather  at  the  feast  of  swords, 
Like  mountain-eagles  to  their  prey  ! 

And  mid  the  vales  and  swelling  hills, 

That  sweetly  bloom  in  Freedom's  land, 
A  living  spirit  breathes  and  fills 

The  freeman's  heart  and  nerves  his  hand ; 
For  the  bright  soil  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  home  of  all  he  loves  on  earth, — 

For  this,  when  Freedom's  trumpet  calls, 
He  waves  on  high  his  sword  of  fire, — 

For  this,  amidst  his  country's  halls 
For  ever  strikes  the  freeman's  lyre ! 

His  burning  heart  he  may  not  lend 
To  serve  a  doting  despot's  sway, — 

A  suppliant  knee  he  will  not  bend, 

Before  these  things  of  "  brass  and  clay :" 

When  wrong  and  ruin  call  to  war, 

He  knows  the  summons  from  afar ; 

(214) 


THE     FALLS     OF     NIAGARA.  2]  5 

On  high  his  glittering  sword  he  waves, 

And  myriads  feel  the  freeman's  fire, 
While  he,  around  their  fathers'  graves, 

Strikes  to  old  strains  the  freeman's  lyre ! 


THE  FALLS  OF  NIAGARA. 

BY    JOHN    G.    C.    BRAINARD, 

THE  thoughts  are  strange  that  crowd  into  my  brain, 
While  I  look  upward   to  thee.     It  would  seem 
As  if  GOD  pour'd  thee  from  his  hollow  "  hand," 
And  hung  his  bow  upon  thine  awful  front  ; 
And  spoke  in  that  loud  voice,  which  seem'd  to  him 
Who  dwelt  in  Patmos  for  his  Saviour's  sake, 
"  The  sound  of  many  waters ;"  and  had  bade 
Thy  flood  to  chronicle  the  ages  back, 
And  notch  His  centuries  in  the  eternal  rocks. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep.     And  what  are  we, 
That  hear  the  question  of  that  voice  sublime  ? 
O  !  what  are  all  the  notes  that  ever  rung 
From  war's  vain  trumpet,  by  thy  thundering  side ! 
Yea,  what  is  all  the  riot  man  can  make 
In  his  short  life,  to  thy  unceasing  roar ! 
And  yet,  bold  babbler,  what  art  thou  to  Him 
Who  drown'd  a  world,  and  heap'd  the  waters  far 
Above  its  loftiest  mountains  ? — a  light  wave, 
That  breaks,  and  whispers  of  its  Maker's  might. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

BY    EPHRAIM    PEABODY. 

THE  silent  wilderness  for  me ! 

Where  never  sound  is  heard, 
Save  the  rustling  of  the  squirrel's  foot, 

And  the  flitting  wing  of  bird, 
Or  its  low  and  interrupted  note, 

And  the  deer's  quick,  crackling  tread 
And  the  swaying  of  the  forest  boughs, 

As  the  wind  moves  overhead. 

Alone,  (how  glorious  to  be  free !) 

My  good  dog  at  my  side, 
My  rifle  hanging  in  my  arm, 

I  range  the  forests  wide. 
And  now  the  regal  buffalo 

Across  the  plains  I  chase  ; 
Now  track  the  mountain  stream,  to  &nd 

The  beaver's  lurking  place. 

I  stand  upon  the  mountain's  top, 

And  (solitude  profound !) 
Not  even  a  woodman's  smoke  curls  up 

Within  the  horizon's  bound. 
Below,  as  o'er  its  ocean  breadth 

The  air's  light  currents  run, 
The  wilderness  of  moving  leaves 

Is  glancing  in  the  sun. 


(219; 


THE     BACKWOODSMAN.  217 

I  look  around  to  where  the  sky 

Meets  the  far  forest  line, 
And  this  imperial  domain — 

This  kingdom — all  is  mine. 
This  bending  heaven,  these  floating  clouds, 

Waters  that  ever  roll, 
And  wilderness  of  glory,  bring 

Their  offerings  to  my  soul. 

My  palace,  built  by  GOD'S  own  hand, 

The  world's  fresh  prime  hath  seen ; 
Wide  stretch  its  living  halls  away, 

Pillar'd  and  roof'd  with  green. 
My  music  is  the  wind  that  now 

Pours  loud  its  swelling  bars, 
Now  lulls  in  dying  cadences, 

My  festal  lamps  are  stars. 

Though  when  in  this,  my  lonely  home. 

My  star-watch'd  couch  I  press, 
I  hear  no  fond  "  good  night" — think  not 

I  am  companionless. 
O,  no !  I  see  my  father's  house, 

The  hill,  the  tree,  the  stream, 
And  the  looks  and  voices  of  my  home 

Come  gently  to  my  dream. 

And  in  these  solitary  haunts, 

While  slumbers  every  tree 
In  night  and  silence,  GOD  himself 

Seems  nearer  unto  me. 
I  feel  His  presence  in  these  shades, 

Like  the  embracing  air ; 
And  as  my  eyelids  close  in  sleep, 

My  heart  is  hush'd  in  prayer. 
19 


JUNE. 

BY   WILLIAM    H.    BURLEIGH. 

JUNE,  with  its  roses — June ! 
The  gladdest  month  of  our  capricious  year, 
With  its  thick  foliage  and  sunlight  clear  ; 

And  with  the  drowsy  tune 
Of  the  bright  leaping  waters,  as  they  pass 
Laughingly  on  amid  the  springing  grass  ! 

Earth,  at  her  joyous  coming, 
Smiles  as  she  puts  her  gayest  mantle  on  ; 
And  Nature  greets  her  with  a  benison  ; 

While  myriad  voices,  humming 
Their  welcome  song,  breathe  dreamy  music  round, 
Till  seems  the  air  an  element  of  sound. 

The  overarching  sky 
Weareth  a  softer  tint,  a  lovelier  blue, 
As  if  the  light  of  heaven  were  melting  through 

Its  sapphire  home  on  high ; 
Hiding  the  sunshine  in  their  vapoury  breast, 
The  clouds  float  on  like  spirits  to  their  rest. 

A  deeper  melody, 

Pour'd  by  the  birds,  as  o'er  their  callow  young 
Watchful  they  hover,  to  the  breeze  is  flung — 

Gladsome,  yet  not  of  glee — 
Music  heart-born,  like  that  which  mothers  sing 
Above  their  cradled  infants  slumbering. 

(218) 


JUNE.  219 

On  the  warm  hill-side,  where 
The  sunlight  lingers  latest,  through  the  grass 
Peepeth  the  luscious  strawberry  !     As  they  pass, 

Young  children  gambol  there, 
Crushing  the  gather'd  fruit  in  playful  mood, 
And  staining  their  bright  faces  with  its  blood. 

A  deeper  blush  is  given 
To  the  half-ripen'd  cherry,  as  the  sun 
Day  after  day  pours  warmth  the  trees  upon, 

Till  the  rich  pulp  is  riven  ; 
The  truant  schoolboy  looks  with  longing  eyes, 
And  perils  limb  and  neck  to  win  the  prize. 

The  farmer,  in  his  field, 

Draws  the  rich  mould  around  the  tender  maize ; 
While  Hope,  bright-pinion'd,  points  to  coming  days, 

When  all  his  toil  shall  yield 
An  ample  harvest,  and  around  his  hearth 
There  shall  be  laughing  eyes  and  tones  of  mirth. 

Poised  on  his  rainbow-wing, 
The  butterfly,  whose  life  is  but  an  hour, 
Hovers  coquettishly  from  flower  to  flower, 

A  gay  and  happy  thing ; 
Born  for  the  sunshine  and  the  summer-day, 

Soon  passing,  like  the  beautiful,  away ! 

,  ^ 

These  are  thy  pictures,  June  ! 

Brightest  of  summer-months — thou  month  of  flowers ! 
First-born  of  beauty,  whose  swift-footed  hours 

Dance  to  the  merry  tune 
Of  birds,  and  waters,  and  the  pleasant  shout 
Of  childhood  on  the  sunny  hills  peal'd  out. 


220  MYSTERIOUS     MUSIC     OF     OCEAN. 

I  feel  it  were  not  wrong 
To  deem  thou  art  a  type  of  heaven's  clime, 
Only  that  there  the  clouds  and  storms  of  time 

Sweep  not  the  sky  along  ; 

The  flowers — air — beauty — music — all  are  thine, 
But  brighter — purer — lovelier — more  divine ! 


MYSTERIOUS  MUSIC  OF  OCEAN. 

BY    CARTER    MORRIS. 

"  And  the  people  of  this  place  say,  that,  at  certain  seasons,  beauti 
ful  sounds  are  heard  from  the  ocean." — MAYOR'S  Voyages. 

LONELY  and  wild  it  rose, 
That  strain  of  solemn  music  from  the  sea, 
As  though  the  bright  air  trembled  to  disclose 

An  ocean  mystery. 

Again  a  low,  sweet  tone, 
Fainting  in  murmurs  on  the  listening  day, 
Just  bade  the  excited  thought  its  presence  own, 

Then  died  away. 

Once  more  the  gush  of  sound, 
Struggling  and  swelling  from  the  heaving  plain, 
ThrilPd  a  rich  peal  triumphantly  around, 

And  fled  again. 

O,  boundless  deep  !  we  know 

Thou  hast  strange  wonders  in  thy  gloom  conceal'd, 
Gems,  flashing  gems,  from  whose  unearthly  glow 

Sunlight  is  seal'd. 


MYSTERIOUS     MUSIC     OF     OCEAN.  221 

And  an  eternal  spring 

Showers  her  rich  colours  with  unsparing  hand, 
Where  coral  trees  their  graceful  branches  fling 

O'er  golden  sand. 

But  tell,  O,  restless  main ! 
Who  are  the  dwellers  in  thy  world  beneath, 
That  thus  the  watery  realm  cannot  contain 

The  joy  they  breathe  ? 

Emblem  of  glorious  might ! 
Are  thy  wild  children  like  thyself  array'd, 
Strong  in  immortal  and  uncheck'd  delight, 

Which  cannot  fade  ? 

Or  to  mankind  allied, 

Toiling  with  woe,  and  passion's  fiery  sting, 
Like  their  own  home,  where  storms  or  peace  preside, 

As  the  winds  bring  ? 

Alas  for  human  thought ! 
How  does  it  flee  existence,  worn  and  old, 
To  win  companionship  with  beings  wrought 

Of  finer  mould ! 

'Tis  vain — the  reckless  waves 
Join  with  loud  revel  the  dim  ages  flown, 
But  keep  each  secret  of  their  hidden  caves 

Dark  and  unknown. 

19* 


TO  THE  EAGLE. 

BY   J.    G.    PERCIVAL. 

BIKD  of  the  broad  and  sweeping  wing, 

Thy  home  is  high  in  heaven, 
Where  wide  the  storms  their  banners  fling, 

And  the  tempest  clouds  are  driven. 
Thy  throne  is  on  the  mountain  top ; 

Thy  fields,  the  boundless  air  ; 
And  hoary  peaks,  that  proudly  prop 

The  skies,  thy  dwellings  are. 

Thou  sittest  like  a  thing  of  light, 

Amid  the  noontide  blaze  : 
The  midway  sun  is  clear  and  bright ; 

It  cannot  dim  thy  gaze. 
Thy  pinions,  to  the  rushing  blast, 

O'er  the  bursting  billow,  spread, 
Where  the  vessel  plunges,  hurry  past, 

Like  an  angel  of  the  dead. 

Thou  art  perchM  aloft  on  the  beetling  crag, 

And  the  waves  are  white  below, 
And  on,  with  a  haste  that  cannot  lag, 

They  rush  in  an  endless  flow. 
Again  thou  hast  plumed  thy  wing  for  flight 

To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  away,  like  a  spirit  wreath'd  in  light, 

Thou  hurriest,  wild  and  free. 

(222) 


TO     THE     EAGLE.  223 

Thou  hurriest  over  the  myriad  waves,     . 

And  thou  teavest  them  all  behind  ; 
Thou  sweepest  that  place  of  unknown  graves, 

Fleet  as  the  tempest  wind. 
When  the  night-storm  gathers  dim  and  dark, 

With  a  shrill  and  boding  scream, 
Thou  rushest  by  the  foundering  bark, 

Quick  as  a  passing  dream. 

Lord  of  the  boundless  realm  of  air, 

In  thy  imperial  name, 
The  hearts  of  the  bold  and  ardent  dare 

The  dangerous  path  of  fame. 
Beneath  the  shade  of  thy  golden  wings, 

The  Roman  legions  bore, 
From  the  river  of  Egypt's  cloudy  springs, 

Their  pride,  to  the  polar  shore. 

For  thee  they  fought,  fbr  thee  they  fell. 

And  their  oath  was  on  thee  laid  j 
To  thee  the  clarions  raised  their  swell, 

And  the  dying  warrior  pray'd. 
Thou  wert,  through  an  age  of  death  and  fears, 

The  image  of  pride  and  power, 
Till  the  gather'd  rage  of  a  thousand  years 

Burst  forth  in  one  awful  hour. 

And  then  a  deluge  of  wrath  it  came, 

And  the  nations  shook  with  dread  ; 
And  it  swept  the  earth  till  its  fields  were  flame, 

And  piled  with  the  mingled  dead. 
Kings  were  roll'd  in  the  wasteful  flood, 

With  the  low  and  crouching  slave ; 
And  together  lay,  in  a  shroud  of  blood, 

The  coward  and  the  brave. 


TO    THE    EAGLE. 

And  wh£ re  was  then  thy  fearless  flight  ? 

"  O'er  the  dark,  mysterious  sea, 
To  the  lands  that  caught  the  setting  light, 

The  cradle  of  Liberty. 
There,  on  the  silent  and  lonely  shore, 

For  ages,  I  watch'd  alone, 
And  the  world,  in  its  darkness,  ask'd  no  more 

Where  the  glorious  bird  had  flown. 

"  But  then  came  a  bold  and  hardy  few, 

And  they  breasted  the  unknown  wave ; 
I  caught  afar  the  wandering  crew ; 

And  I  knew  they  were  high  and  brave. 
I  wheelM  around  the  welcome  bark, 

As  it  sought  the  desolate  shore, 
And  up  to  heaven,  like  a  joyous  lark, 

My  quivering  pinions  bore, 

"  And  now  that  bold  and  hardy  few 

Are  a  nation  wide  and  strong ; 
And  danger  and  doubt  I  have  lead  them  through, 

And  they  worship  me  in  song  ; 
And  over  their  bright  and  glancing  arms, 

On  field,  and  lake,  and  sea, 
With  an  eye  that  fires,  and  a  spell  that  charms,. 

I  guide  them  to  victory." 


A  NAME  IN  THE  SAND. 

BY    HANNAH    P.    GOULD. 

ALONE  I  walk'd  the  ocean  strand ; 
A  pearly  shell  was  in  my  hand  : 
I  stoop'd  and  wrote  upon  the  sand 

My  name — the  year — the  day. 
As  onward  from  the  spot  I  pass'd, 
One  lingering  look  behind  I  cast : 
A  wave  came  rolling  high  and  fast, 

And  wash'd  my  lines  away. 

And  so,  methought,  'twill  shortly  be 
With  every  mark  on  earth  from  me  j 
A  wave  of  dark  oblivion's  sea 

Will  sweep  across  the  place, 
Where  I  have  trod  the  sandy  shore 
Of  time,  and  been  to  be  no  more, 
Of  me — my  day — the  name  I  bore, 

To  leave  nor  track  nor  trace. 

And  yet,  with  Him  who  counts  the  sands, 
And  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
I  know  the  lasting  record  stands, 

Inscribed  against  my  name, 
Of  all  this  mortal  part  has  wrought ; 
Of  all  this  thinking  soul  has  thought ; 
And  from  these  fleeting  moments  caught 

For  glory,  or  for  shame. 

(225) 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  PAST. 

BY    EPES    SARGENT. 

WE  will  not  deplore  them,  the  days  that  are  past  ; 
The  gloom  of  misfortune  is  over  them  cast ; 
They  are  lengthen'd  by  sorrow  and  sullied  by  care  ; 
Their  griefs  were  too  many,  their  joys  were  too  rare ; 
Yet,  now  that  their  shadows  are  on  us  no  more, 
Let  us  welcome  the  prospect  that  brightens  before ! 

We  have  cherish'd  fair  hopes,  we  have  plotted  brave  schemes, 
We  have  lived  till  we  find  them  illusive  as  dreams  ; 
Wealth  has  melted  like  snow  that  is  grasp'd  in  the  hand, 
And  the  steps  we  have  clirnb'd  have  departed  like  sand  ; 
Yet  shall  we  despond  while  of  health  unberefl, 
And  honour,  bright  honour,  and  freedom  are  left  ? 

Q  !  shall  we  despond,  while  the  pages  of  time 

Yet  open  before  us  their  records  sublime ! 

While,  ennobled  by  treasures  more  precious  than  gold, 

We  can  walk  with  the  martyrs  and  heroes  of  old ; 

While  humanity  whispers  such  truths  in  the  ear, 

As  it  softens  the  heart  like  sweet  music  to  hear  ? 

O  !  shall  we  despond  while,  with  visions  still  free, 
We  can  gaze  on  the  sky,  and  the  earth,  and  the  sea ; 
While  the  sunshine  can  waken  a  burst  of  delight, 
And  the  stars  are  a  joy  and  a  glory  by  night : 
While  each  harmony,  running  through  nature,  can  raise 
In  our  spirits  the  impulse  of  gladness  and  praise? 

(226) 


INTIMATIONS     OF     IMMORTALITY.  227 

O  !  let  us  no  longer  then  vainly  lament 
Over  scenes  that  are  faded  and  days  that  are  spent : 
But,  by  faith  unforsaken,  unawed  by  mischance, 
On  hope's  waving  banner  still  fix'd  be  our  glance ; 
And,  should  fortune  prove  cruel  and  false  to  the  last, 
Let  us  look  to  the  future  and  not  to  the  past ! 


INTIMATIONS   OF  IMMORTALITY. 

BY    RICHARD    H.    DANA. 

O,  LISTEN,  man ! 

A  voice  within  us  speaks  the  startling  word, 

"  Man,  thou  shalt  never  die  !"     Celestial  voices 

Hymn  it  around  our  souls  :  according  harps, 

By  angel  fingers  touch'd  when  the  mild  stars 

Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 

The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ! 

Thick,  clustering  orbs,  and  this  our  fair  domain, 

The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 

Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 

— O,  listen,  ye,  our  spirits !  drink  it  in 

From  all  the  air  !     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 

'Tis  floating  in  day's  setting  glories  ;  night, 

Wrapp'd  in  her  sable  robe,  with  silent  step 

Comes  to  our  bed  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears ; 

Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 

All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 

As  one  vast,  mystic  instrument,  are  touch'd 

By  an  unseen,  living  Hand,  and  conscious  chords 

Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee : 

— The  dying  hear  it ;  and  as  sounds  of  earth 

Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 

To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 


ALNWICK    CASTLE. 

BY    F.    G.    HALLECK. 

HOME  of  the  Percy's  highborn  race, 

Home  of  their  beautiful  and  brave, 
Alike  their  birth  and  burial  place, 

Their  cradle,  and  their  grave ! 
Still  sternly  o'er  the  castle  gate 
Their  house's  Lion  stands  in  state, 

As  in  his  proud  departed  hours ; 
And  warriors  frown  in  stone  on  high, 
And  feudal  banners  "  flout  the  sky" 

Above  his  princely  towers. 

A  gentle  hill  its  side  inclines, 

Lovely  in  England's  fadeless  green, 
To  meet  the  quiet  stream  which  winds 

Through  this  romantic  scene 
As  silently  and  sweetly  still, 
As  when,  at  evening,  on  that  hill, 

While  summer's  wind  blew  soft  and  low, 
Seated  by  gallant  Hotspur's  side, 
His  Katharine  was  a  happy  bride, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruin'd  pile : 

Does  not  the  succouring  Ivy,  keeping 

Her  watch  around  it  seem  to  smile, 
As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 

One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 


(228) 


ALNWICK     CASTLE.  229 

The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border  story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch  ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum  ; 
And  babe,  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn,  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior 


Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom  : 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  Templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damp'd  with  his  dying  breath  ; 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  be  "  tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here  ; 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell, 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 
20 


230  .  ALNWICK     CASTLE. 

I  wander'd  through  the  lofty  halls 
Trod  by  the  Percys  of  old  fame, 

And  traced  upon  the  chapel  walls 
Each  high,  heroic  name, 

From  him  who  once  his  standard  set 

Where  now,  o'er  mosque  and  minaret. 
Glitter  the  Sultan's  crescent  moons  ; 

To  him  who,  when  a  younger  son, 

Fought  for  King  George  at  Lexington, 

A  Major  of  dragoons. 

That  last  half  stanza — it  has  dash'd 

From  my  warm  lip  the  sparkling  cup  ; 
The  light  that  o'er  my  eyebeam  flash'd, 

The  power  that  bore  my  spirit  up 
Above  this  bank-note  world — is  gone  ; 
And  Alnwick's  but  a  market-town, 
And  this,  alas !  its  market-day, 
And  beasts  and  borderers  throng  the  way  ; 
Oxen,  and  bleating  lambs  in  lots, 
Northumbrian  boors,  and  plaided  Scots, 

Men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line ; 
From  Teviot's  bard  and  hero  land, 
From  Royal  Berwick's  beach  of  sand, 
From  Wooller,  Morpeth,  Hexam,  and 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 

These  are  not  the  romantic  times 
So  beautiful  in  Spenser's  rhymes, 

So  dazzling  to  the  dreaming  boy  : 
Ours  are  the  days  of  fact,  not  fable, 
Of  Knights,  but  not  of  the  Round  Table, 

Of  Bailie  Jarvie,  not  Rob  Roy : 


ALNWICK     CASTLE.  231 

'Tis  what  "  our  President,"  Monroe, 

Has  call'd  "  the  era  of  good  feeling :" 
The  Highlander,  the  bitterest  foe 

To  modern  laws,  has  felt  their  blow, 
Consented  to  be  tax'd,  and  vote, 
And  put  on  pantaloons  and  coat, 

And  leave  off  cattle-stealing  : 
Lord  Stafford  mines  for  coal  and  salt, 
The  Duke  of  Norfolk  deals  in  malt, 

The  Douglas  in  red  herrings ; 
And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 
Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band 
Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Rothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 

Has  come :  to-day  the  turban'd  Turk, 
(Sleep,  Richard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start,) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally  ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar  stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 
And  not  a  sabre  blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  Heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You'll  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 

In  the  arm'd  pomp  of  feudal  state? 
The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "  gentle  Kate," 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving  men, 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn ; 


232  DEATH     OF     AN     INFANT. 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy  ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bow'd  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 
For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 


DEATH   OF   AN   INFANT. 

BY    LYDIA    H.    SIGOURNEY. 

DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  polish'd  brow, 
And  dash'd  it  out.     There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip.     He  touch'd  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded.     Forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spake  a  wisnful  tenderness,  a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  may  wear.     With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  those  curtaining  lids 
For  ever.     There  had  been  a  murmuring  sound 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.     The  spoiler  set 
The  seal  of  silence.     But  there  beam'd  a  smile, 
So  fix'd,  so  holy,  from  that  cherub  brow, 
Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there.     He  dared  not  steal 
The  signet-ring  of  heaven. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

THERE  is  a  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen, 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair  ?"  saith  he  ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  1 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kiss'd  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay," 

The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled ; 
**  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white, 

These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

20  *  (233) 


234  DEMOCRACY. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 
The  Reaper  came  that  day  ; 

'Twas  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


DEMOCRACY. 

BY    JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

SPIRIT  of  Truth,  and  Love,  and  Light ! 

The  foe  of  Wrong,  and  Hate,  and  Fraud ! 
Of  all  which  pains  the  holy  sight, 

Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  GOD  ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown  j 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred — though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride ; 

And  garlands,  pluck'd  from  thee,  are  wreath'd 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

Oh,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stain'd  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 

For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there, 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn — 
The  Kebla  of  the  patriot's  prayer ! 


DEMOCRACY.  235 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  rights  of  all  divine — • 

The  pitying  heart — the  helping  arm — 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice — are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  cords  of  caste  and  birth ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  } 
As  stoop'd  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 

The  worshipper  on  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepell'd,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thou  see'st  A  MAN 
In  prince  or  peasant — slave  or  lord — 

Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disguise,  form,  place,  or  name, 

Beneath  the  flaunting  robes  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soil'd,  and  dim, 
The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set — 

The  immortal  gift  of  GOD  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  that  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veil'd  his  perfect  brightness  there. 


236  DEMOCRACY. 

Not  from  the  cold  and  shallow  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrill'd,  awed,  by  turns,  the  listener's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  lean'd  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe, 

That  Voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  Party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 
At  Party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring ; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 


TO   THE   DEAD. 

BY   JOHN    G.    C.    BRAINARD. 

How  many  now  are  dead  to  me 

That  live  to  others  yet ! 
How  many  are  alive  to  me 
Who  crumble  in  their  graves,  nor  see 
That  sickening,  sinking  look,  which  we 

Till  dead  can  ne'er  forget. 

Beyond  the  blue  seas,  far  away, 

Most  wretchedly  alone, 
One  died  in  prison,  far  away, 
Where  stone  on  stone  shut  out  the  day, 
And  never  hope  or  comfort's  ray 

In  his  lone  dungeon  shone. 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  me, 

Though  months  and  years  have  pass'd ; 

In  a  lone  hour,  his  sigh  to  me 

Comes  like  the  hum  of  some  wild  bee, 

And  then  his  form  and  face  I  see, 
As  then  I  saw  him  last. 

And  one  with  a  bright  lip,  and  cheek, 

And  eye,  is  dead  to  me. 
How  pale  the  bloom  of  his  smooth  cheek ! 
His  lip  was  cold — it  would  not  speak : 
His  heart  was  dead,  for  it  did  not  break : 

And  his  eye,  for  it  did  not  see. 

Then  for  the  living  be  the  tomb, 
And  for  the  dead  the  smile ; 

(237) 


238  THE    LAST    READER. 

Engrave  oblivion  on  the  tomb 
Of  pulseless  life  and  deadly  bloom, — 
Dim  is  such  glare :  but  bright  the  gloom 
Around  the  funeral  pile. 


THE   LAST    READER. 

BY    OLIVER    W.    HOLMES. 

I  SOMETIMES  sit  beneath  a  tree, 
And  read  my  own  sweet  songs  ; 

Though  nought  they  may  to  others  be, 
Each  humble  line  prolongs 

A  tone  that  might  have  pass'd  away, 

But  for  that  scarce-remember'd  lay. 

I  keep  them  like  a  lock  or  leaf, 
That  some  dear  girl  has  given  ; 

Frail  record  of  an  hour,  as  brief 
As  sunset  clouds  in  heaven, 

But  spreading  purple  twilight  still 

High  over  memory's  shadow'd  hill. 

They  lie  upon  my  pathway  bleak, 
Those  flowers  that  once  ran  wild, 

As  on  a  father's  care-worn  cheek 
The  ringlets  of  his  child. 

The  golden  mingling  with  the  gray, 

And  stealing  half  its  snows  away. 

What  care  I  though  the  dust  is  spread 
Around  these  yellow  leaves, 

Or  o'er  them  his  sarcastic  threap 
Oblivion's  inject  weaves ; 


THE    LAST    READER.  239 

Though  weeds  are  tangled  on  the  stream, 
It  still  reflects  my  morning's  beam. 

And  therefore  love  I  such  as  smile 

On  these  neglected  songs, 
Nor  deem  that  flattery's  needless  wile 

My  opening  bosom  wrongs  ; 
For  who  would  trample,  at  my  side, 
A  few  pale  buds,  my  garden's  pride  1 

It  may  be  that  my  scanty  ore 

Long  years  have  wash'd  away, 
And  where  were  golden  sands  before, 

Is  nought  but  common  clay ; 
Still  something  sparkles  in  the  sun, 
For  Memory  to  look  back  upon. 

And  when  my  name  no  more  is  heard, 

My  lyre  no  more  is  known, 
Still  let  me,  like  a  winter's  bird, 

In  silence  and  alone, 
Fold  over  them  the  weary  wing, 
Once  flashing  through  the  dews  of  spring. 

Yes,  let  my  fancy  fondly  wrap 

My  youth  in  its  decline, 
And  riot  in  the  rosy  lap 

Of  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 
And  give  the  worm  my  little  store, 
When  the  last  reader  reads  no  more  1 


THE    BUCKET. 

BY  S.  WOODWORTH. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep  tangled  wild  wood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ; 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it, 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-cover'd  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure, 

For  often  at  noon,  when  return'd  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

How  quick  to  the  white  pebbled  bottom  it  fell, 
Then  soon  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ; 

Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 
Though  fill'd  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 

And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 
The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 

(240) 


MORN     AT     SEA. 


As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well. 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-cover'd  bucket  which  hangs  in  his  well. 


MORN    AT    SEA. 

BY    JAMES    ALDRICH. 

CLEARLY,  with  mental  eye, 
Where  the  first  slanted  ray  of  sunlight  springs, 
I  see  the  morn  with  golden-fringed  wings 

Up-pointed  to  the  sky. 

In  youth's  divinest  glow, 
She  stands  upon  a  wandering  cloud  of  dew, 
Whose  skirts  are  sun-illumed  with  every  hue 

Worn  by  GOD'S  covenant  bow  ! 

The  child  of  light  and  air ! 
O'er  land  or  wave,  where'er  her  pinions  move, 
The  shapes  of  earth  are  clothed  in  hues  of  love 

And  truth,  divinely  fair. 

Athwart  this  wide  abyss, 
On  homeward  way  impatiently  I  drift ; 
O,  might  she  bear  me  now  where  sweet  flowers  lift 

Their  eyelids  to  her  kiss  ! 

Her  smile  hath  overspread 
The  heaven-reflecting  sea,  that  evermore 
Is  tolling  solemn  knells  from  shore  to  shore 

For  its  uncoffin'd  dead. 
21 


242  MORN    AT    SEA* 

Most  like  an  angel-friend, 

With  noiseless  footsteps,  which  no  impress  leave, 
She  comes  in  gentleness  to  those  who  grieve, 

Bidding  the  long  night  end. 

How  joyfully  will  hail, 
With  re-enliven'd  hearts,  her  presence  fair, 
The  hapless  shipwreck'd,  patient  in  despair, 

Watching  a  far-off  sail. 

Vain  all  affection's  arts 

To  cheer  the  sick  man  through  the  night  have  been 
She  to  his  casement  goes,  and,  looking  in, 

Death's  shadow  thence  departs. 

How  many,  far  from  home, 
Wearied,  like  me,  beneath  unfriendly  skies, 
And  mourning  o'er  affection's  broken  ties, 

Have  pray'd  for  her  to  come ! 

Lone  voyager  on  time's  sea ! 
When  my  dull  night  of  being  shall  be  past, 
O,  may  I  waken  to  a  morn,  at  last, 

Welcome  as  this  to  me ! 


TO    A    SEA-SHELL. 

BY    AMELIA    B.    WELBY. 

SHELL  of  the  bright  sea- waves ! 
What  is  it  that  we  hear  in  thy  sad  moan  ? 
Is  this  unceasing  music  all  thine  own, 

Lute  of  the  ocean-caves  ! 

_  Or,  does  some  spirit  dwell 
In  the  deep  windings  of  thy  chamber  dim, 
Breathing  for  ever,  in  its  mournful  hymn, 
Of  ocean's  anthem  swell  ? 

Wert  thou  a  murmurer  long 
In  crystal  palaces  beneath  the  seas, 
Ere,  on  the  bright  air,  thou  hadst  heard  the  breeze 

Pour  its  full  tide  of  song  ? 

Another  thing  with  thee — 
Are  there  not  gorgeous  cities  in  the  deep, 
Buried  with  flashing  gems  that  darkly  sleep, 

Hid  by  the  mighty  sea  1 

And  say,  O  lone  sea-shell, 
Are  there  not  costly  things,  and  sweet  perfumes, 
Scatter'd  in  waste  o'er  that  sea-gulf  of  tombs  ? 

Hush  thy  low  moan,  and  tell. 

But  yet,  and  more  than  all — 
Has  not  each  foaming  wave  in  fury  toss'd 
O'er  earth's  most  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  lost, 

Like  a  dark  funeral  pall  ? 

(243) 


244  TO     A     SEA-SHELL. 

'Tis  vain — thou  answerest  not! 
Thou  hast  no  voice  to  whisper  of  the  dead — 
'Tis  ours  alone,  with  sighs,  like  odours  shed, 

To  hold  them  unforgot ! 

Thine  is  as  sad  a  strain 
As  if  the  spirit  in  thy  hidden  cell 
Pined  to  be  with  the  many  things  that  dwell 

In  the  wild,  restless  main. 

And  yet,  there  is  no  sound 
Upon  the  waters,  whisper'd  by  the  waves, 
But  seemeth  like  a  wail  from  many  graves, 

Thrilling  the  air  around. 

The  earth,  O  moaning  shell ! 
The  earth  hath  melodies  more  sweet  than  these, 
The  music-gush  of  rills,  the  hum  of  bees, 

Heard  in  each  blossom's  bell. 

Are  not  these  tones  of  earth, 
The  rustling  foliage  with  its  shivering  leaves, 
Sweeter  than  sounds  that  e'en  in  moonlight  eves 

Upon  the  seas  have  birth  ? 

Alas  !  thou  still  wilt  moan — 
Thou'rt  like  the  heart  that  wastes  itself  in  sighs, 
E'en  when  amid  bewildering  melodies, 

If  parted  from  its  own. 


THE    DROWNED    MARINER. 

BY    MRS.    SEBA    SMITH. 

A  MARINER  sat  on  the  shrouds  one  night, 

The  wind  was  piping  free  ; 

NOW  bright,  now  dimm'd  was  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  the  phosphor  gleam'd  in  the  wake  of  the  whale, 

As  it  flounder'd  in  the  sea ; 
The  scud  was  flying  athwart  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  whistling  by, 
And  the  wave,  as  it  tower'd,  then  fell  in  spray, 
Look'd  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 

The  mariner  sway'd  and  rock'd  on  the  mast, 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well  i. 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watch'd  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  feU,-r-: 
For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide, 
And  they  lash'd  as  they  pass'd  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy  eyes,  all  huge  and  grim, 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 

Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurb'd  steed  along ; 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws., 
As  her  gallant  bow  the  water  ploughs, 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  an$  strong  j 

21  *  (245) 


046  THE     DROWNED     MARIXER. 

The  topsail  is  reef'd,  and  the  sails  are  furl'd, 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world, 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood ; 
But  there  cometh  no  chill  to  the  manner's  blood. 

Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  swingeth  at  ease, 

And  holdeth  by  the  shroud ; 
And  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 
The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees, 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 
Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  at  him, 
With  its  pallid  cheek,  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  1 
Did  it  beckon  him  down  1     Did  it  call  his  name  1 
Now  rolleth  the  ship  the  way  whence  it  came. 

The  mariner  look'd,  and  he  saw,  with  dread, 

A  face  he  knew  too  well ; 

And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 
And  its  long  hair  out  on  the  wave  was  spread, — 

Was  there  a  tale  to  tell  1 
The  stout  ship  rock'd  with  a  reeling  speed, 
And  the  mariner  groan'd,  as  well  he  need — 
For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 
The  dead  face  gleam'd  from  the  briny  tide. 

Bethink  thee,  mariner,  well  of  the  past : 

A  voice  calls  loud  for  thee : 
There's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last; 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beams  is  cast, — 

O,  where  shall  thy  burial  be  ? 
Bethink  thee  of  oaths,  that  were  lightly  spoken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  vows,  that  were  lightly  broken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  all  that  is  dear  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea ; 


THE     DROWNED     MARINER.  247 

Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  the  wave, 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone  ; 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave, 
To  struggle,  and  feel  there  is"  none  to  save  ! 

GOD  shield  thee,  helpless  one  ! 
The  stout  limbs  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past ; 
The  trembling  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast ; 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more, 
Then  slowly  sinks, — the  struggle  is  o'er. 

Down,  down  where  the  storm  is  hush'd  to  sleep, 
Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell  ; 

Where  the  amber-drops  for  thee  shall  weep, 

And  the  rose-lipp'd  shell  its  music  keep ; 
There  thou  shalt  slumber  well. 

The  gem  and  the  pearl  lie  heap'd  at  thy  side ; 

They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 

From  the  strong  man's  hand,  from  the  maiden's  brow, 

As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  wave  below. 

A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean-bed ; 

The  mother  and  child  are  there : 
The  fervent  youth  and  the  hoary  head, 
The  maid,  with  her  floating  locks  outspread, 

The  babe  with  its  silken  hair : 
As  the  water  moveth,  they  lightly  sway, 
And  the  tranquil  lights  on  their  features  play : 
And  there  is  each  cherish'd  and  beautiful  form, 
Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 


ITALY. 

BY    EDWARD    C.    PINKNEY. 

KNOW'ST  thou  the  land  which  lovers  ought  to  choose  1 

Like  blessings  there  descend  the  sparkling  dews  j 

In  gleaming  streams  the  crystal  rivers  run, 

The  purple  vintage  clusters  in  the  sun  ; 

Odours  of  flowers  haunt  the  balmy  breeze, 

Rich  fruits  hang  high  upon  the  verdant  trees ; 

And  vivid  blossoms  gem  the  shady  groves, 

Where  bright-plumed  birds  discourse  their  careless  loves. 

Beloved ! — speed  we  from  this  sullen  strand, 

Until  thy  light  feet  press  that  green  shore's  yellow  sand. 

Look  seaward  thence,  and  nought  shall  meet  thine  eye 

But  fairy  isles,  like  paintings  on  the  sky ; 

And,  flying  fast  and  free  before  the  gale, 

The  gaudy  vessel  with  its  glancing  sail  ; 

And  waters  glittering  in  the  glare  of  noon, 

Or  touch'd  with  silver  by  the  stars  and  moon, 

Or  fleck'd  with  broken  lines  of  crimson  light, 

When  the  far  fisher's  fire  affronts  the  night. 

Lovely  as  loved !  toward  that  smiling  shore 

Bear  we  our  household  gods,  to  fix  for  ever  more. 

It  looks  a  dimple  on  the  face  of  earth, 

The  seal  of  beauty,  and  the  shrine  of  mirth ; 

Nature  is  delicate  and  graceful  there, 

The  place's  genius,  feminine  and  fair ; 

The  winds  are  awed,  nor  dare  to  breathe  aloud ; 

The  air  seems  never  to  have  borne  a  cloud, 

(248) 


SPORT.  249 

Save  where  volcanoes  send  to  heaven  their  curl'd 
And  solemn  smokes,  like  altars  of  the  world. 
Thrice  beautiful ! — to  that  delightful  spot 
Carry  our  married  hearts,  and  be  all  pain  forgot. 

There  Art,  too,  shows,  when  Nature's  beauty  palls, 
Her  sculptured  marbles,  and  her  pictured  walls  ; 
And  there  are  forms  in  which  they  both  conspire 
To  whisper  themes  that  know  not  how  to  tire ; 
The  speaking  ruins  in  that  gentle  clime 
Have  but  been  hallow'd  by  the  hand  of  Time, 
And  each  can  mutely  prompt  some  thought  of  flame ; 
The  meanest  stone  is  not  without  a  name. 
Then  come,  beloved  ! — hasten  o'er  the  sea, 
To  build  our  happy  hearth  in  blooming  Italy. 


SPORT. 

BY    PARK    BENJAMIN. 

To  see  a  fellow  of  a  summer's  morning, 
With  a  large  foxhound  of  a  slumberous  eye 
And  a  slim  gun,  go  slowly  lounging  by, 

About  to  give  the  feather'd  bipeds  warning, 
That  probably  they  may  be  shot  hereafter, 
Excites  in  me  a  quiet  kind  of  laughter ; 

For,  though  I  am  no  lover  of  the  sport 
Of  harmless  murder,  yet  it  is  to  me 
Almost  the  funniest  thing  on  earth  to  see 

A  corpulent  person,  breathing  with  a  snort, 

Go  on  a  shooting  frolic  all  alone  ; 

For  well  I  know  that  when  he's  out  of  town, 
He  and  his  dog  and  gun  will  all  lie  down, 

And  undestructive  sleep  till  game  and  light  are  flown. 


DEATH    OF    THE    FIRST-BORN. 

BY    WILLIS    G.    CLARK. 

YOUNG  mother,  he  is  gone ! 
His  dimpled  cheek  no  more  will  touch  thy  breast ; 

No  more  the  music-tone 

Float  from  his  lips,  to  thine  all  fondly  press'd ; 
His  smile  and  happy  laugh  are  lost  to  thee : 
Earth  must  his  mother  and  his  pillow  be. 

His  was  the  morning  hour, 
And  he  hath  pass'd  in  beauty  from  the  day, 

A  bud,  not  yet  a  flower, 

Torn,  in  its  sweetness,  from  the  parent  spray  J 
The  death-wind  swept  him  to  his  soft  repose, 
As  frost,  in  spring-time,  blights  the  early  rose. 

Never  on  earth  again 
Will  his  rich  accents  charm  thy  listening  ear, 

Like  some  ^Eolian  strain, 
Breathing  at  eventide  serene  and  clear  ; 
His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies. 

And  from  thy  yearning  heart, 
Whose  inmost  core  was  warm  with  love  for  him, 

A  gladness  must  depart, 
And  those  kind  eyes  with  many  tears  be  dim ; 
While  lonely  memories,  an  unceasing  train, 
Will  turn  the  raptures  of  the  past  to  pain. 

(250) 


DEATH     OF     THE     FIRST-BORN.  251 

Yet,  mourner,  while  the  day 
Rolls  like  the  darkness  of  a  funeral  by, 

And  hope  forbids  one  ray 
To  stream  athwart  the  grief-discolour'd  sky ; 
There  breaks  upon  thy  sorrow's  evening  gloom 
A  trembling  lustre  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

'Tis  from  the  better  land ! 
There,  bathed  in  radiance  that  around  them  springs, 

Thy  loved  one's  wings  expand  ; 
As  with  the  choiring  cherubim  he  sings, 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  GOD  can  see, 
Who  said,  on  earth,  to  children,  "  Come  to  me." 

Mother,  thy  child  is  bless'd : 
And  though  his  presence  may  be  lost  to  thee, 

And  vacant  leave  thy  breast, 
And  miss'd,  a  sweet  load  from  thy  parent  knee  ; 
Though  tones  familiar  from  thine  ear  have  pass'd, 
Thou 'It  meet  thy  first-born  with  his  Lord  at  last. 


BRONX. 

BY    JOSEPH    R.    DRAKE. 

I  SAT  me  down  upon  a  green  bank-side, 
Skirting  the  smooth  edge  of  a  gentle  river, 

Whose  waters  seem'd  unwillingly  to  glide, 

Like  parting  friends,  who  linger  while  they  sever ; 

Enforced  to  go,  yet  seeming  still  unready, 

Backward  they  wind  their  way  in  many  a  wistful  eddy. 

Gray  o'er  my  head  the  yellow-vested  willow 

Ruffled  its  hoary  top  in  the  fresh  breezes, 
Glancing  in  light,  like  spray  on  a  green  billow, 

Or  the  fine  frostwork  which  young  winter  freezes ; 
When  first  his  power  in  infant  pastime  trying, 
Congeals  sad  autumn's  tears  on  the  dead  branches  lying. 

From  rocks  around  hung  the  loose  ivy  dangling, 
And  in  the  clefts  sumach  of  liveliest  green, 

Bright  ising-stars  the  little  beech  was  spangling, 
The  gold-cup  sorrel  from  his  gauzy  screen 

Shone  like  a  fairy  crown,  enchased  and  beaded, 

Left  on  some  morn,  when  light  flash'd  in  their  eyes  unheeded 

The  humbird  shook  his  sun-touch'd  wings  around, 

The  bluefinch  cafol'd  in  the  still  retreat  ; 
The  antic  squirrel  caper'd  on  the  ground 

Where  lichens  make  a  carpet  for  his  feet ; 
Through  the  transparent  waves,  the  ruddy  minkle 
Shot  up  in  glimmering  sparks  his  red  fin's  tiny  twinkle. 


(25-7) 


BRONX.  253 

There  were  dark  cedars,  with  loose,  mossy  tresses, 
White-powder'd  dog  trees,  and  stiff  hollies  flaunting 

Gaudy  as  rustics  in  their  May-day  dresses, 
Blue  pelloret  from  purple  leaves  upslanting 

A  modest  gaze,  like  eyes  of  a  young  maiden 

Shining  beneath  dropp'd  lids  the  evening  of  her  wedding. 

The  breeze  fresh  springing  from  the  lips  of  morn, 
Kissing  the  leaves,  and  sighing  so  to  lose  'em, 

The  winding  of  the  merry  locust's  horn, 

The  glad  spring  gushing  from  the  rock's  bare  bosom : 

Sweet  sights,  sweet  sounds,  all  sights,  all  sounds  excelling, 

O !  'twas  a  ravishing  spot,  form'd  for  a  poet's  dwelling. 

And  did  I  leave  thy  loveliness,  to  stand 

Again  in  the  dull  world  of  earthly  blindness? 

Pain'd  with  the  pressure  of  unfriendly  hands, 
Sick  of  smooth  looks,  agued  with  icy  kindness  ? 

Left  I  for  this  thy  shades,  where  none  intrude, 

To  prison  wandering  thought  and  mar  sweet  solitude  ? 

Yet  I  will  look  upon  thy  face  again, 

My  own  romantic  Bronx,  and  it  will  be 
A  face  more  pleasant  than  the  face  of  men. 

Thy  waves  are  old  companions,  I  shall  see 
A  well-remember'd  form  in  each  old  tree, 
And  hear  a  voice  long  loved  in  thy  wild  minstrelsy. 

22 


MY    NATIVE    VILLAGE. 

BY    JOHN    H.    BRYANT. 

T  HERE  lies  a  village  in  a  peaceful  vale, 

With  sloping  hills  and  waving  woods  around, 

Fenced  from  the  blasts.     There. never  ruder  gale 
Bows  the  tall  grass  that  covers  all  the  ground ; 

And  planted  shrubs  are  there,  and  cherish'd  flowers, 

And  a  bright  verdure  born  of  gentler  showers. 

Twas  there  my  young  existence  was  begun, 
My  earliest  sports  were  on  its  flowery  green, 

And  often,  when  my  schoolboy  task  was  done, 
I  climbed  its  hills  to  view  the  pleasant  scene, 

And  stood  and  gazed  till  the  sun's  setting  ray 

Shone  on  the  height — the  sweetest  of  the  day. 

There,  when  that  hour  of  mellow  light  was  come, 
And  mountain  shadows  cool'd  the  ripen'd  grain, 

I  watch'd  the  weary  yeoman  plodding  home, 
In  the  lone  path  that  winds  across  the  plain, 

To  rest  his  limbs,  and  watch  his  child  at  play, 

And  tell  him  o'er  the  labours  of  the  day. 

And  when  the  woods  put  on  their  autumn  glow, 
And  the  bright  sun  came  in  among  the  trees, 

And  leaves  were  gathering  in  the  glen  below, 
Swept  softly  from  the  mountains  by  the  breeze, 

I  wander'd  till  the  starlight  on  the  stream 

At  lensth  awoke  me  from  mv  fairv  dream. 

(254) 


THE     FREE     MIND. 

Ah !  happy  days,  too  happy  to  return, 

Fled  on  the  wings  of  youth's  departed  years, 

A  bitter  lesson  has  been  mine  to  learn, 

The  truth  of  life,  its  labours,  pains,  and  fears ; 

Yet  does  the  memory  of  my  boyhood  stay, 

A  twilight  of  the  brightness  pass'd  away. 

My  thoughts  steal  back  to  that  sweet  village  still ; 

Tis  flowers  and  peaceful  shades  before  me  rise  ; 
The  play-place  and  the  prospect  from  the  hill, 

Its  summer  verdure,  and  autumnal  dyes  ; 
The  present  brings  its  storms ;  but,  while  they  last, 
I  shelter  me  in  the  delightful  past. 


THE  FREE  MIND. 

BY    W.    L.    GARRISON, 

HIGH  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 

And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways : 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honey'd  fruits  and  flowers 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale, 

Or,  in  sweet  converse,  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'Tis  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star ! 


THE    HEALING    OF   THE    DAUGHTER 
OF    JAIRUS, 

BY    NATHANIEL  P.    WILLIS. 

FRESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.    «3he  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance, 
Her  thin  pale  fingers  clasp'd  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast, 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 
The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 
And  as  it  stirr'd  with  the  awakening  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 
And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 
She  turn'd  upon-  her  pillow.     He  was  there — 
The  same  loved,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 
With  the  fast-falling  tears,  and,  with  a  sigh 
Of  tremulous  weakness,  murmuring  his  name, 
She  gently  drew  his  hands  upon  her  lips, 
And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 
Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 
Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face — 
And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 
Stirr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 
Had  ceased  its  pressure,  and  he  could  not  hear 
In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 
Came  through  her  nostrils,  and  her  temples  gave 
To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse,  and  at  her  mouth 
He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 

(256) 


T II J5     DAUGHTER     OF     J  A  I R  U  3  .  257 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 
1  Ached  with  its  deathly  stillness. 

It  was  night — 

And  softly  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipp'd  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  play'd  low  upon  the  beach 
Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 
Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 
In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 
Seem'd  like  some  just-born  harmony  in  the  air, 
Waked  by  the  power  of  wisdom.     On  a  rock, 
With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 
He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 
Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 
And  staff,  for  they  had  waited  by  the  sea 
Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  pray'd 
For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 
His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 
And  the  long  curls  from  off  his  shoulders  fell 
As  he  lean'd  forward  earnestly,  and  still 
The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep, 
And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty, 
And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mix'd  with  power, 
Fill'd  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 
As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 
The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 
Jairus  the  Ruler.     With  his  flowing  robe 
Gather'd  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came, 
And  fix'd  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 
The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side, 
And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away, 
And  loft  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 
Alone.     A  moment  longer  on  the  face 
22* 


258  THE     DAUGHTER     OF     JAIRUS. 

Of  the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze, 
And  as  the  twelve  look'd  on  him,  by  the  light 
Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 
Steal  to  his  silver  beard,  and  drawing  nigh 
Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 
Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 
Press'd  it  upon  his  lips,  and  murmur'd  low, 
"Master!   my  daughter!" — 

The  same  silvery  light. 
That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcomed  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight  slanting  to  the  marble  floor 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair,  but  ere  he  touch'd 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead!1'' 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance ; — But  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
"  She  is  not  dead — but  sleepeth" 

They  pass'd  in. 

The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burn'd  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curl'd  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumber'd  in  their  folds — 
Not  e'en  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed, 


THE     DAUGHTER     OF     JAIRUS.  259 

And  pray'd  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm  sad  face, 
And  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart 
And  look'd  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay — 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life, 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins — 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay 
Matching  the  arches  pencil'd  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polish'd  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said 
"  Maiden!  Arise!" — and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  colour  ran, 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture,  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — AROSE  ! 


TO   AN   ELM. 

BY    HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

BRAVELY  thy  old  arms  fling 
Their  countless  pennons  to  the  fields  of  air, 

And,  like  a  sylvan  king, 
Their  panoply  of  green  still  proudly  wear. 

As  some  rude  tower  of  old, 
Thy  massive  trunk  still  rears  its  rugged  form, 

With  limbs  of  giant  mould, 
To  battle  sternly  with  the  winter  storm. 

In  Nature's  mighty  fane, 
Thou  art  the  noblest  arch  beneath  the  sky  ; 

How  long  the  pilgrim  train 
That  with  a  benison  have  pass'd  thee  by  ! 

Lone  patriarch  of  the  wood  ! 
Like  a  true  spirit  thou  dost  freely  rise, 

Of  fresh  and  dauntless  mood, 
Spreading  thy  branches  to  the  open  skies. 

The  locust  knows  thee  well, 
And  when  the  summer-days  his  notes  prolong, 

Hid  in  some  leafy  cell, 
Pours  from  thy  world  of  green  his  drowsy  song. 

Oft,  on  a  morn  in  spring, 
The  yellow-bird  will  seek  thy  waving  spray, 

And  there  securely  swing, 
To  whet  his  beak,  and  pour  his  blithesome  lay. 

How  bursts  thy  monarch  wail, 
When  sleeps  the  pulse  of  Nature's  buoyant  life, 

And,  bared  to  meet  the  gale, 
Wave  thy  old  branches,  eager  for  the  strife ! 

(SCO) 


TO     AN     ELM.  261 

The  sunset  often  weaves 
Upon  thy  crest  a  wreath  of  splendour  rare, 

While  the  fresh-murmuring  leaves 
Fill  with  cool  sound  the  evening's  sultry  air. 

Sacred  thy  roof  of  green 
To  rustic  dance,  and  childhood's  gambols  free, 

Gay  youth  and  age  serene 
Turn  with  familiar  gladness  unto  thee. 

O,  hither  should  we  roam, 
To  hear  Truth's  herald  in  the  lofty  shade. 

Beneath  thy  emerald  dome 
Might  Freedom's  champion  fitly  draw  his  blade. 

With  blessings  at  thy  feet, 
Falls  the  worn  peasant  to  his  noontide  rest ; 

Thy  verdant,  calm  retreat 
Inspires  the  sad  and  soothes  the  troubled  breast. 

When,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
Plays  through  thy  tressil  crown  the  sun's  last  gleam, 

Under  thy  ancient  bower 
The  schoolboy  comes  to  sport,  the  bard  to  dream. 

And  when  the  moonbeams  fall 
Through  thy  broad  canopy  upon  the  grass, 

Making  a  fairy  hall, 
As  o'er  the  sward  the  flitting  shadows  pass ; 

Then  lovers  haste  to  thee, 
With  hearts  that  tremble  like  that  shifting  light, 

To  them,  O,  brave  old  tree, 
Thou  art  joy's  shrine— a  temple  of  delight, ! 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAR 

BY    HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW. 

YES,  the  year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  blear'd  ! 
Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 

Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard, 
Sorely, — sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 
Caw  !  caw  !  the  rooks  are  calling, 

It  is  a  sound  of  woe, 
A  sound  of  woe ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain-passes 

The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 
They  are  chanting  solemn  masses, 

Singing ;  Pray  for  this  poor  soul, 
Pray,— pray ! 

The  hooded  clouds,  like  friars, 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain, 
And  patter  their  doleful  prayers ; — 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
All  in  vain ! 

There  he  stands,  in  the  foul  weather, 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 
Crown'd  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 

Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 
A  king, — a  king ! 

(262) 


MASS    FOR    THE    DYING    YEAR.  263 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice ! 
His  joy  !  his  last !  O,  the  old  man  gray 

Loveth  her  ever-soft  voice, 
Gentle  and  low. 

To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, 

And  the  voice  gentle  and  low 
Of  the  soft  air,  like  a  daughter's  breath, 

Pray  do  not  mock  me  so ! 
Do  not  laugh  at  me ! 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies, 
No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 

Over  the  glassy  skies, 
No  mist  nor  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth, 

And  the  forests  utter  a  moan, 
Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 

In  the  wilderness  alone, 
Vex  not  his  ghost ! 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 

Gathering  and  sounding  on, 
The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 
The  storm-wind ! 

Howl !  howl !  and  from  the  forest 

Sweep  the  red  leaves  away  ! 
Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

O  soul,  could  thus  decay, 
And  be  swept  away  ! 


264  MASS     FOR     THE     DYING     YEAR, 

For  there  shall  come  a  mightier  blast, 

There  shall  be  a  darker  day ; 
And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away ! 
Kyrie  Eleyson ! 
Christe  Eleyson ! 


THE  END 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 
University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 

days  prior  to  due  date. 

_ _^ — — __ — — -^_^_ 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 
DEC  1  8  2000 


12.000(11/95) 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


893563 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


